Fly By Night
by Seriana Ritani
Summary: Two intertwined quests. Lots of unfinished business. From the deepest corners of their minds to the farthest reaches of the globe, Rogue and Remy must bury their demons and face the impossible to win a chance of a future together. A "Flight" story.
1. Chapter 1

Fly By Night  
An X-Men: Evolution Fanfiction by Seriana Ritani

* * *

Chapter 1**  
**

* * *

It was May, and the students were restless with the promises of approaching summer. Professor Xavier could feel their unrestrainable energy making the air snap and sizzle all through the suddenly-too-small house. Even the psychic blocks he'd erected around his mind, both for everyone's privacy and for his own sanity, weren't enough to protect him from their madcap anticipation of three months of liberty. It was very difficult to concentrate.

Finally he closed his computer and left his office. If he couldn't work, at least he could watch training. He'd been leaving it too much to the teachers lately.

The observation room was ringed almost entirely by windows, but the Professor hardly needed them. His students' physical technique, their timing and strength and flexibility and balance, were the teachers' responsibility. His domain was their minds, and those he could see without any eyes at all.

The brightest flair was Jean's—Jean, his telepathic protégée, who knew how to close off her mind but was too trusting to ever actually do it. Her personality burned like a candle, cheerful and dancing and warm. And beside her was Scott, the raised and trained leader of the X-Men, all bright red determination and focus to smother his fears of failure. Then there was Storm, cool and smooth, like a stone in a river, her heartbeat and breathing in perfect rhythm with the slow and inexorable heartbeat of the earth. There was Logan, gray with old wounds and hazy from his long-practiced psychic resistance . . . there was Kurt, blue as the ocean on a sunny morning, sparkling with life and fun . . . there was Rogue, an emerald-green flare of defiance and pride and fierce joy . . . there was Kitty, bright and unrestrained as a butterfly, her mind a light and dancing sparkle . . . there was Gambit, less than a shadow, his secrets shielded behind his own mutant abilities. His X-Men. His students. He knew them all, and loved them . . . for their strengths, for their imperfections, for their love for one another and for him.

Logan flared. The flash of emotion was gone in a second, before the Professor had time to identify it—tucked away behind Logan's shields and invisible without a deep mental probe of the kind Xavier never used without permission. But he didn't need a mental probe to discover what the emotion had been: annoyance. "Drat it, Cyke, if you let them get you from behind _one more time_ I'm letting the Popsicle take over as field commander!"

"Really?" Bobby wanted to know. No one paid any attention to him.

"Sorry, Logan," Jean chimed, gasping as she struggled to recover her breath. "That one was my fault."

Professor Xavier moved to the window to look down onto the floor of the Danger Room. The exercise had paused, and the students stood in an awkward ring surrounding Scott, Logan, and Jean.

Logan didn't spare a glance for the apologetic redhead. "You're field commander, Cyclops. You've gotta be beyond this sort of stupid rookie mistake. Other people's lives are depending on your judgment and you _cannot afford _to be caught off-guard like that!"

"You think I don't know that?" Scott snapped back, furious now. "Jeez, Logan, I'm not stupid. I know the risks!"

"Logan, it was my fault!" Jean insisted again. "I wasn't in place to finish the maneuver. I screwed up. Yell at me."

"Okay, everybody, run's over," Logan announced. "Got get changed and get to your homework. _You_, Four-Eyes, are staying right here and running the drill until you get it right."

"C'mon, Logan, my trig final's in the morning! I've got to study—"

"Your trig final can wait. Until three a.m. if it has to."

"Logan!" Jean snapped. "What am I, invisible? _It was my fault! _Scott has to study or he's gonna bomb."

Logan turned to look at her, as if only just noticing that she was in the room. "Go upstairs, Jean. That's an order."

She glared daggers at him. "You're not field commander, and I don't take orders from you."

"It's okay, Jean," Scott told her, rearranging his face with the admirable self-control he'd had to develop as part of his leadership role. "Logan wants to dish it out, that's fine. I can take it. You take everybody upstairs and I'll see you at dinner."

Jean nodded, acknowledging the soft-spoken order, her jaw still clenched in anger. She raised her arm and flashed the hand signal for 'fall back.' On her cue, the other students headed for the door, shooting worried glances over their shoulders at Logan and at Scott.

Professor Xavier moved away from the window and towards the door. Sometime very soon, he was going to have to have a discreet talk with Logan.

* * *

Kitty sighed, debating whether to jump over the obstacle in her path or phase through it. Finally she settled for phasing: though she knew Rogue would hardly feel it if Kitty fell on top of her, she couldn't bear the thought of disrupting the warm contentment of the people-pile on the floor.

Gambit was sprawled on the living room carpet, propped up on his elbows as he read over the sloppily scribbled study guide in the back of his notebook. Rogue lay perpendicular to him, her legs draped across his back, her head propped up on a sofa cushion and a textbook on her chest.

For two people who couldn't touch each other, it was astonishing how touchy-feely Gambit and Rogue had become. If they were in the same room—and they usually were—they had to be in some kind of physical contact. It wasn't that they'd gotten mushy; Gambit was still cocky and Rouge still defensive, and they got on one another's nerves as much as they ever had. But when they were apart, they were restless, and when together, they were content. It was as simple as that. At least, as far as Kitty could see.

She phased through them and flopped onto the sofa. "Guys, Hank says you gotta work on college apps tonight after dinner."

Rogue groaned and dropped her textbook onto her face. "College sucks, and Ah'm not even in it yet. Tell Hank Ah already did three, which is two more than Ah need."

"He said you'd say that, and he said you have to do another one anyway. I think he wants you to try for Harvard."

"Cuz they _love_ mutants at Harvard. Especially mutants with a 3.3."

"If it's you, dey will," Gambit told her, twisting around to give her a wink over his shoulder. "I hear dey give scholarships for bein' gorgeous."

Rouge grinned and shoved his head back towards his study guide. "Then Ah guess you're just gonna have to hit the Professor up for full tuition."

"All scholarships are given based on need and qualifications," Jean offered, looking up from her flash cards. "Entrance, too. If you wanted to get into Harvard, Rogue, I'm sure you could. With a handicap like yours, all you've overcome . . . they'd be begging you to enroll if you worded your essays right."

"And if the entrance committee isn't on the 'Friends of Humanity' e-mail list," offered Kitty.

"That's why X-Men don't apply to schools down south," said Jean.

"Did I just hear you take a crack at de South, Miz New England?" asked Gambit. "Cause you know de penalty fo' takin' a crack at de South."

"Don't even try it, Swamp Rat," said Jean casually. She flicked through a few flash cards that she'd already memorized, flipped one over to see the correct answer, snorted, and stuffed it to the back of the deck. "Ugh! Stupid nerve holes."

No one commented. Jean had been making comments like that all semester as she slogged through the vast amounts of memorization her anatomy class required.

"Dinner!" Hank called from across the hallway. Everyone slammed their books shut and shoved them away with groans of relief.

Rogue rolled off Gambit and lifted herself into the air and onto her feet. "Good thing. Ah'm starved. And mah head's gonna explode if Ah look at that book for one more stinkin' second."

"Do I detect a note of stress?" Hank asked, sticking his massive, shaggy blue head through the door. "Come on, it's getting cold."

"It's May," Kitty moaned as she left the room with the other students. "Everybody's stressed."

"So I see," Hank observed. "Rogue, did you get the message about your college applications?"

"Yeah, yeah, Ah got it. Stupid college."

Hank looked her over, then eyed all the other students speculatively.

Everyone pulled up their usual spots at the table. Dinner was already in place: a large and gleaming honey ham, with half a dozen generous side dishes. A household as large as the Institute took a lot of feeding.

"Looks good," said Kurt approvingly as he pulled up his chair.

"Thanks," said Amara, pulling off her apron and hanging it on the back of her chair. "Kitty, there's turkey for you. It's only leftovers, but . . ."

"It's okay. I like turkey." Kitty smiled at Amara to let her know she appreciated the trouble that the cooking team had gone through to give her a non-pork alternative.

"And Sam, don't eat the bean salad, it's got lemon juice in it."

"Check," said Sam, who was allergic to citrus.

"I think that's everything. Let's eat."

Kitty rested her forearms on the edge of the table and held hands with Kurt on her left side and Storm on her right. Around the table, everyone was doing the same, joining them into one circle of friendship and mutual responsibility.

The Professor bowed his head. "May we all be thankful for the efforts of our friends in preparing this meal, and may it strengthen us that we may serve and protect our fellow men to the best of our collective ability."

Everyone nodded; a few people murmured their assent, and Kurt crossed himself. Then the hands dropped and everyone reached for the nearest serving dish.

"It sounds to me," Hank observed as he took a spoonful of bean salad, "that the students have been under a lot of pressure this week. I think we might want to cancel Saturday's training and do something else."

"Like what?" asked Ray.

"Sleep in!" Bobby cheered.

"Pool party!" Kitty suggested. She would be happy to have a pool party every day of the week.

"More study time," Jean suggested. Her eyes were downcast, fixed on the edge of the table.

Storm reached across Amara and took the deck of flash cards from where Jean had concealed them in her lap. "Jean, it is dinner time. You can continue working after your dishes are done."

"I was thinking a field trip," Hank clarified. "Let everyone get out of the house for a while."

"Sounds good."

Everyone looked up as Scott walked into the dining room. He'd changed out of his training uniform, but his face was still shining with sweat. Without comment, he pulled up his chair at Professor Xavier's right hand and sat down. "So where do you think we should go?"

"Scott." Jean put her hand on his arm, worry written across her face. "Are you okay?"

"Sweaty. Sore. You know—training does that. Can somebody pass the water down here?"

Silently, the X-Men handed the nearest water pitcher up the table towards their field commander.

"Where's Logan?" Jean asked.

"In the observation room. He said to tell you he wants to look over some of our Danger Room footage, and that he'll eat later." He poured himself a glass of water, drained it in one go, and then repeated his earlier question. "So where are we going to go on Saturday?"

* * *

Friday night was one of the few nights of the week when Rogue had permission to be in Gambit's room. The teachers had turned a blind eye to her frequent sleepovers until both Rogue and Gambit had started falling asleep in class. Now the rule was Friday and Saturday nights only, and all their grades had to stay reasonably high. So after a long week of diligent slogging at her schoolwork, Rogue was comfortably snuggled up in Remy's coat and an afghan, her head on his shoulder, enjoying her weekly reward.

Being with Remy made her happier than she had any right to be. She knew it was too good to be true, but she defied the universe to try to take this happiness away from her.

"So," she muttered, wiggling a little so she was settled more comfortably against his side. "What was up with Logan today?"

Remy chuckled, and the sound was a comforting buzz that reverberated through his body and into hers. "Mebbe he's possessed." His hand combed absently through her hair. The mess of dark red curls fell just past her shoulders now—that awkward length where it was too short to do anything with but too long to ignore. It was driving Rogue nuts, but Remy loved it, and stroked and played with it every chance he got.

"That's one way to explain it. Ah mean, the way he tore into Scott . . . Ah haven't seen him get that mad at a student since the time the house blew up. What'd Scott even do to tick him off so bad?"

Remy lay his free arm across her waist and pulled her a little tighter against him. Rogue hummed her contentment, happy to let the conversation drop for a while. She turned her head to prop her chin up on his chest.

They hadn't touched since that morning in New Orleans, months ago now. They never talked about it, but it was always there, in every glance, every touch, every smile. They had kissed. More than that. For a few breathless, never-to-be-forgotten moments, they had been the same person, each absorbing the other's being . . . memories, character traits, desires, fears, secrets. An echo of everything Remy was lingered inside Rogue, and a trace of her was part of him. That kind of closeness and mutual comprehension was something no one else could possibly have: not Scott and Jean, with their psychic bond, not Kurt and Amanda with all their openness and trust. This was just for the two of them, Rogue and Remy—their treasured, binding secret.

The moon was nearly full outside, and the cool silver light came beaming in through the window, letting Rogue make out the contours of Remy's face. His eyes glowed gently, reflecting off his cheekbones and the strands of hair that fell across his forehead. Rogue could feel them on her face, not as heat, but as knowledge. She could see in his gaze how much he loved her. He never said it; neither did she. They didn't need to. A look, and a memory, were enough.

At least, enough for now.

Rogue didn't care about tomorrow: just being this happy, right now, was more than she'd ever believed she could have. But Remy was a planner, a schemer. He was always thinking about tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. But he knew Rogue wasn't the same, so he never talked about them with her. And Rogue never asked. Speculating about the future would only mar the present, and she was determined to hang onto the present with both hands for as long as she possibly could.

He combed her hair off her forehead, his careful fingers coming within a breath of her skin but no closer. "Logan's been actin' weird fo'a long time, _chère_. I don't think Scott did anything. I think he was just in de wrong place at de wrong time."

"What'd'you mean, actin' weird? Ah haven't noticed anything."

"Well, you been distracted."

Rogue grinned, and Remy grinned back.

"He's got real quiet over de last couple months. Skips meals. Spends more time dan usual outta de house, in de woods or down at MacGuire's. Storm and Hank been covering for him, so nobody's noticed much, but it's gettin' worse. His little breakdown today might be jus' de beginning."

"Or it might be he just had a bad day. Ah mean, there's so much we don't know about him. Could be anything. He could be diabetic, and he had low blood sugar. He could've just got a letter from his long-lost Canadian girlfriend telling him it's over. He could've lost a fortune in the stock market."

"Mebbe he's secretly in love with Storm and caught her makin' out with Professor X."

Rogue buried her face in the blankets to muffle her giggling.

* * *

Jean was tired. Really tired. No wonder: it was nearly three in the morning. Her endless flash cards were blurring in front of her eyes.

She hadn't stayed up to study, but as long as she had to be up she figured she'd get some more cramming in. That had been the plan, at least. It wasn't working very well. Every part of her wanted to close her eyes and flop over into the impossibly inviting softness of the couch—every part but the part that was still mad at Logan. It didn't matter how late he stayed out, trying to avoid her: she would out-wait him. They were having this thing out tonight. Well, this morning.

Finally, she heard the growl of his motorcycle as it pulled into the garage. She didn't check her watch. It was probably better not to look.

He heard him enter the kitchen, and went to meet him. Although the key rack was closer to the garage door than the kitchen counter, he tossed the keys onto the counter anyway. He reeked of alcohol and tobacco smoke. Jean wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Are you drunk?"

"If I ain't, that's not my fault," Logan snapped at her. "Go to bed."

"Yeah, I really stayed up until this ungodly hour of the morning because I wanted to hear you tell me to go to bed."

"I don't care why you stayed up. You're going to bed now."

"No, I'm not."

"Fine, you're not. But I am. 'Night."

"Logan, we need to talk. About what happened today."

"Nothing happened today."

"Don't lie to me! How _dare _you! Something's wrong with you, and I need to know what it is."

"No, you don't."

"You made Scott train for four extra hours for a mistake _I_ made, then you practically bit my head off in front of the whole team. Even for you, that's being a jerk. And that's just this week."

"You don't like the way I talk to you, then _stop talking to me._"

"I just might, you know? Ten years of telepathic training aught to be enough to squeeze a straight answer out of your brain without bothering to talk at all."

"You wouldn't dare."

"_Wouldn't I?_"

"What, Little Miss Perfect Jean Gray breaking the Professor's rules? That I'd pay to see."

"Don't you dare push me. Not at this hour of the morning. You have no _idea_ what I'm capable of."

"What, gonna try a mind probe? Go for it, hot stuff. See how long ten years of psychic training can last against decades of special ops conditioning and a couple fists of sharp pointies."

Logan headed for the hallway, but Jean stepped in front of the door. "You don't get to blow me off. Not again. Not this time."

Logan became very still, and when he spoke, his voice was low and rough, the way it got when he was at his most dangerous. "Get out of my way, Jean."

She didn't flinch. She knew him too well. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would sooner stick his claws through his own chest than raise a finger against her. "We. Need. To. Talk."

Logan pushed her.

He _pushed _her!

He pushed her hard enough to make her stumble and hit her hip against the counter—hard enough that he had time to get out the door and halfway down the hall before she recovered enough to retaliate. But when she got her balance back, she was terrified, and the terror made her furious, and the fury made her powerful. She reached through the kitchen wall with her telekinesis, found Logan, and held him. She heard his snarl of frustration echo through the hall.

Limping a little on her sore hip, Jean left the kitchen and advanced on Logan, spinning him in midair so he would have to look at her. "If you wanted to convince me that everything was fine, you just blew it. The Logan I knew would never have done that. _Ever_. So tell me again that I should just go to bed and not worry about you, if you can do it with a straight face."

Her hip throbbed, straining her concentration, and she winced. Logan's feet hit the floor with a soft, catlike _thump._ She tried to grab him again, but her telekinetic grasp wasn't as strong as before. Logan could break it without even trying.

But he didn't try. He held perfectly still, just as she was willing him to do. In a half-choked voice, he asked, "You okay, Red?"

She looked up, one hand still cupped protectively over the bruised spot. "Now that you're calling me 'Red' again, I think I'll live." She let go of him.

He walked up to her and hesitantly pulled her arm across his shoulders. "Come on. Let's get you fixed up."

Jean limped a little more than she needed to; if her injury calmed him down so much, she might as well press her advantage. Logan led her to a kitchen chair and eased her down into it, then went to get an ice pack out of the freezer.

Jean accepted it quietly and pressed it to her hip, keeping her eyes down. She was afraid of what she might see if she looked up into his face.

There was a soft clatter of crystal; Logan had poured her a glass of water and set it down on the table next to her. Jean gratefully took a sip. Gesture of apology aside, the stress of the last few minutes had made her thirsty.

Logan took a chair, setting it at least four feet away from hers. "I'm . . . I'm so sorry, Jean. You have no idea. You know I'd never . . . well, I guess I can't say that anymore. Oh, God . . ."

"It's hardly even a bump," Jean assured him, setting the glass down and dabbing water off her upper lip. "I get worse in the Danger Room every day."

"Not from me, you don't. Not like that."

Jean pulled up the hem of her shirt and peeked under the waistline of her pajama pants. There wasn't a mark yet. With any luck, there never would be. She'd never bruised easily—tender skin didn't go well with daily Danger Room workouts and midriff-baring shirts. "So do I have to play the 'ow-you-hurt-me-you-owe-me-big' card, or will you just stay calm for a second and tell me what I want to know?"

"I'm calm," Logan promised her. "And I'll talk to you all night if you want."

Jean laughed. "Well, not _all_ night. I really do want to go to bed. I just need you to answer one question for me."

"And what's that?"

"What did I do wrong?"

He raised his head to look at her. "Don't you _dare_ think that. This is _not_ your fault, it's mine."

"I don't mean this. I mean everything, the whole last few months. You've been avoiding me. And _don't_ tell me I'm imagining it; I'm not stupid. You don't talk to me except when you have to, and then you call me 'Jean,' which you haven't ever called me on a regular basis before. And today, during training . . . I was the one who screwed up. We both know it. But you took it out on Scott instead, like I wasn't even there."

He didn't answer this time.

"I've known you for a long time, Logan. I trust you. And I've never seen you dodge a confrontation. So just _tell me_ what I did to tick you off so completely. I promise I won't get mad. Just tell me. You used to trust me enough to give me criticism when I needed it."

She reached across the empty space between them, trying to take his hand. He pulled both hands away as though she'd burned him, but he met her eyes and held her gaze.

"You listen to me very carefully, darlin'," he ordered, and his voice was surprisingly steady. "You did nothin' wrong. Nothing. Don't ever think you did. No matter what happens—"

"Why? What do you think is going to happen?"

"Doesn't matter. What matters is that you know you're a good kid, and that you've got a ton of people who care about you."

"But you're not one of them anymore? Is that what you're saying?"

"No."

"Logan, you're scaring me."

"Good. That's healthy."

Jean managed a weak laugh. "No, it isn't. You've been training me since I was little. I don't think there's anybody in the world whose good opinion I value more . . . not even the Professor or my dad. When I thought you might be mad at me, I just . . . just panicked. It's been awful. I can't sleep right, can't concentrate on studying for my stupid finals. I'm just worried and stressed about this _all the time_. I don't think I've had one night without nightmares since . . ."

"Since New Orleans," Logan finished for her.

Jean nodded. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

There was silence in the kitchen for a long time.

Finally Logan asked, "Can you make it up the stairs to bed now?"

"Sure. If I can't walk, I'll levitate. But I can walk." She pushed herself to her feet using the kitchen table for support. "I just . . . I didn't want to go to sleep thinking you hated me. You can be mad at me all you want, just . . . as long as you still love me."

"You can be a real drama queen at four in the morning."

"I know. Just say it, though. Please? Just so I don't have one more nightmare."

He looked at her for a very, very long minute. Jean only realized how long it was when her head started getting fuzzy from holding her breath.

"Love ya, Jean. _Now_ will you finally go to bed?"

She smiled, relief flooding her heart. "Aye aye, cap'n. Just take a shower before you crash, okay? You smell _awful_."

"Yes, ma'am."

Jean was at the top of the stairs before she realized that Logan still hadn't given her a straight answer.

* * *

Logan managed to hold perfectly still until he heard Jean's bedroom door close behind her. Then, with an inarticulate snarl of frustration and pain, he lashed out with all three claws of his right hand. The blades sang as they cut through the air. Jean's half-empty slid apart in four bias-cut crystal rings, and water splashed across the tabletop.

* * *

Author's Notes:

First: I'm sorry! I know this was supposed to be finished with the last story . . . heck, come to that, it was supposed to be finished with the FIRST story . . . but the last of the loose ends just wouldn't let me go. So yes, here you have the fourth installment of the increasingly-inaccurately-named Flight Trilogy. I don't know what got into me.

Second: Yeah, what can I say, I'm a sucker for Jean/Logan. It's the lost cause addict in me. (I'm such a liar: it's the Logan addict in me, pure and simple.) And, unfortunately, that storyline took center stage in this first chapter. Sorry, that's just the way the pacing worked out. Don't worry: J/L is still a subplot to R/R, and it's all tied together. Have patience. We'll get there.

Third: When my sister took anatomy, my entire family had to endure many comments similar to Jean's.

Fourth: MacGuire's is the name of a bar that used to stand on the shores of Woman Lake in Minnesota. In honor of its being the only bar I've ever been in (also the only bar I've ever canoed to), I have named Logan's seedy pool hangout after it.

Fifth: As with all my stories, this one is in flux even as it's getting published, so if you happen to think "Hm, I hope we get to see so-and-so reacting to this" or "I really hope we get another scene with X and Y," let me know. Y'all would be astonished at how much such comments have shaped previous _Flight_ stories, always for the better.

Hm . . . this 'Author's Comments' section is competing with the actual chapter for length. Must be more taciturn in future chapters.--Seri


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

"Okay, ve've got . . ." Kurt checked his holoprojector, which conveniently enough had a clock in it. "Five hours until we have to meet up at ze plane. Vhat do you guys vant to see first?"

He, Kitty, Rogue and Gambit stood on the sidewalk in front of the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC. The other Institute students had already scattered, leaving them clustered around a folding tourist map.

"Air and Space," said Rogue.

"How about—"

"Air and Space!"

"American history," said Kitty. "I want to see Dorothy's shoes."

"And Lincoln's hat?"

"That too, I guess."

"Vhat about you, Gambit?"

"Dat one." Gambit shoved his sunglasses back towards the bridge of his nose and jabbed a finger at the map. "Natural history. Dat's where dey keep de gemstones, right?"

"Um . . . is it really a good idea to let you go in there?"

"Hey, you wanna see Dorothy's shoes, I wanna see de gemstone collection. We all got our hobbies."

"How about zis?" Kurt asked. "We'll start in American History, so Kitty can get her picture taken wiz ze shoes . . ."

"You're such a _tourist_, Kitty," Rogue muttered.

" . . . Zen we can do Natural History, because it's right next door, and do Air and Space last because it's closest to ze X-Jet. Plan?"

"Plan," Kitty agreed. "You should be a field commander, Kurt. You're so good at making decisions."

"I copy Scott," Kurt admitted, folding the map and sticking it in his pocket. "Let's go."

"This was _so_ exactly what I needed," Kitty announced, taking the lead as they headed up the street towards Dorothy's legendary shoes. "Just to get out of the house for a little while . . ."

"Yeh mean just to get out of the _state_ for a little while," Rogue interrupted. "Ah still got so much studying to do . . ."

"Every time somebody mentions school, zey have to buy everybody else an ice cream," Kurt announced.

"Good plan," said Kitty.

"I like it," Gambit agreed. He pointed to a vendor's cart on the next corner. "Pay up, _chère._"

"That's not fair! You can't punish me for breakin' a rule you hadn't made up yet!"

"Can so."

"No, yeh can't. It's that court case, um, somethin' versus somebody, that we talked about last chapter in history . . ."

"Ah! _Now _you mentioned school!" Kitty crowed. "Ice cream! Pay up!"

They only stopped in the American History museum long enough for Kitty to get her photo. Though there was plenty more to see, Rogue couldn't help hassling and hurrying everyone through the galleries. She wanted to see the planes.

She didn't really know why. It hadn't been long ago that she didn't care one bit about any kind of aircraft, including the X-Jet that she was supposed to be learning to fly. Then she'd received her new powers, and all of that had changed. She was now frantically interested in anything that could share the sky with her, and would happily argue about engine manufacturers and fuselage materials for hours on end with anyone who cared to participate.

Fortunately for Kitty, who didn't want to be dragged around after Rogue listening to chatter about aircraft, Scott and Jean were in the same museum. Scott knew about planes. Scott loved planes.

The pair of them were just working themselves up on the relative merits of World War II fighters when Gambit called Rogue over to a display of photographs and engine parts. "You recognize dis?"

Rogue studied the largest of the pictures, which showed a large white airplane in flight. There was a massive disc fastened to the top of its body.

Rogue shook her head. "What is it?"

"It's a 56-320 spyplane. You don'remember? Dis is de plane Mystique kidnapped y'in."

Comprehension dawned. "Oh, yeah . . ." She took a second look at the picture. She remembered now, seeing this plane land on the coast highway in front of her. She remembered rattling off its name to Gambit without any idea how she'd come to know it, and she remembered flying recon with such a plane when—

White-hot pain split through her head. She gasped and stumbled. Gambit caught her. "Rogue? _Ça va_?"

"Mah head . . ."

"_Jeanette_," Gambit called across the gallery.

Jean crossed the room in a few long strides and held her hands on either side of Rogue's face, closing her eyes to help her concentrate. "Oh, gosh," she murmured. "Looks like you strained your psychic blocks."

"It hurts like _crap_," Rogue moaned.

"I know. Hold on just a second." Jean caught her lower lip in her teeth to help her concentrate. The pain began to ease, then was gone almost as suddenly as it had arrived. "There we go. Telepathic patch job." She opened her eyes and took her hands away. "Nothing to worry about. But if it happens again, we should probably have the Professor take a look at them. We don't want those blocks getting damaged. We don't know what might come through them."

Rogue nodded. "Thanks, Jean."

Gambit gently took her by the arm. "'Bout time we went and saw somethin' else, _je crois._ We'll see all y'all back at de X-Jet."

* * *

Though Rogue was an extremely practical, down-to-earth, direct person, she couldn't deny that there was something alluring about the cases and cases of sparkling stones that surrounded her. The rounded ones were streaked with stars of white light: the faceted ones flashed hypnotic gleams of color.

"Like 'em?" Remy asked, coming up behind her and slipping his arms around her waist. All his worry had drained away upon entering the Natural History Museum: talk about Rogue's telepathic blocks always made him short-tempered, but jewels were a cure for everything.

"Eh . . . if you like sparkly, rainbow-colored, unfathomably valuable rocks, then yeah, they're not bad."

His chuckle reverberated through her chest. "_Mon père_ used t'tell us about de Smithsonian collection like a bedtime story. De Logan sapphire, de Star of Asia, de Inquisition Necklace, de Marie-Louise Diadem, de Hope . . . you _have_ heard'a dat one, right ?"

"Hope what?"

"Hope _Diamond_, silly. C'mon." He took her hand and pulled her away from the case she was examining, down the exhibit to a room with one large case standing in the center. Inside the case was an enormous blue stone, surrounded by smaller diamonds and attached to a diamond-studded chain.

"Holy heck, it's _huge!_"

"Dat's nothin'. When Louis le Grand owned it, was half again as big as dat. Still one'a de biggest and bluest in de world."

"Ain't it supposed to be cursed . . . like, whoever owns it dies?"

"Well, yeah, if yeh wait long enough. But if y'wanna check it out, we kin always give it to Principal Kelly an' see what happens."

Rogue laughed.

"Do y'like it? I gotta start thinkin' about Christmas presents, y'know."

"Nah. Too flashy. Ah mean, Ah never thought a rock could be full of itself, but that one . . ."

"_Ouais,_ y'got a point. Somethin' more discreet." He hauled her into the next gallery. "How about one'a dese?"

"You do remember we ain't on a shoppin' trip, right? Oh!"

The 'oh' was the only sound she could make in response to the stone that caught her eye. Compared to other gems nearby, it wasn't very big, though it was still too large to be made into a sensible ring. But it was the color, more than the size, that caught her attention. The depths of the little stone were inky black, but where the facets bent the light, they flashed scarlet.

Gambit followed her gaze and led her to the case. "De Young Red. Third-biggest red diamond in de world. Nobody really knows why it gets colored like dat. Y'like it?"

"It's beautiful." She didn't mean to admit it, but somehow she couldn't help but be enchanted by the gleaming little stone. "Looks like your eyes."

"Aww, shucks."

She glanced up at him, working very hard to scowl at his wicked smile. "Just tuh clarify: When Ah said Ah liked it, Ah didn't mean 'please break into this museum and steal it for me'."

Gambit put on a great show of being shocked. "Steal from de Smithsonian Institute? What'd you take me for?"

"Yeah, 'cause you've never busted into a big huge museum just to show off to me."

"Louvre's different. De Smithsonian collection belongs to de American people. No patriotic self-respectin' thief would ever lay a finger on a pebble of dis museum. Not dat it wouldn't be fun . . ."

He glanced over the room, his practiced and professional eye memorizing the cameras, the guards, the hidden corners, the motion detectors. Then he glanced again, and his brow furrowed in concern. "Dat's weird."

Rogue followed his gaze, but the problem was invisible to her. "What?"

"De cameras are all wrong. Dey moved 'em." He let go of her hand and wandered distractedly to the door of the gallery and smacked his palm smartly against the wall. A hidden door, held closed by a magnet, popped open. Inside was a locked cabinet painted battleship gray, with a string of numbers and a logo stamped into the bottom right-hand corner.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step away from there." A guard, shorter than Gambit but intimidatingly dour, stepped up to close the door again. "That's just the control box for the gallery lights."

"Beg pardon. I meant no offense." Gambit stepped graciously away and returned to Rogue's side.

"That was stupid," Rogue observed, without pity.

"Just wanted t'see de alarm system's make and model." The little 'v' of concern was back between his eyebrows. "I used t'know Smithsonian security like de back'a my hand. Learned to read using its blueprints. I should know about dis system change. I should'a known about dis months ago. And I should know de new system, but I ain't never heard of it."

"Hm. Maybe you're not signed up for their 'Museum Security Update' e-mail list."

"_Non_, I'm on dat list. Or I was." Remy glanced around the room, looking for guards and cameras. "We shouldn't talk about dis in here."

"Then let's go outside. We can always look at rocks some other day, and if we stay on the steps Kitty and Kurt will find us when they're done."

She pulled his coat sleeve, drawing him out of the building and out to the crowded street. They sat down on the steps of the museum, out of the way of traffic. Rogue took one of his hands in both of hers and let it rest on her knee. She'd learned that the best way to get him to talk was to be perfectly quiet, assuring him with her silence that she would always keep his secrets.

Remy's grip on her fingers squeezed tight, then relaxed. "_Mon père_ has a contact in every major security systems manufacturer who does business in de U.S. My whole family always knew every detail of every new system before it hit de market. I should know dat system. I shoulda known it a year ago."

"Kinda tricky, with the way things are with you and your dad right now."

"Dey's other ways. Other sources I coulda gone to. Any good t'ief knows enough t'stay on top of news like dat. An I'm de _best. _I _was_ de best." His head fell forward, his beginning-to-be-long-again hair falling despondently around his face. "I'm slippin'."

Rouge let her thumb rub steady circles around the palm of his hand. Part of her wanted to recoil, to get defensive, to be angry and hurt that he still felt connections to the life he'd lead before he'd joined the X-Men. But most of her new better now. She knew how proud he was of being a thief: how the title made him unique and strong and meaningful. So much of his identity had been tied into being among the best young criminals in the world. So she swallowed her bitterness and stayed with him, casting her mind back into her memories of his, trying to remember and understand. This was so foreign to everything that she knew, but it was part of Remy, and Remy was a part of her.

Her patience was rewarded when Remy looked up at her and cocked his old, secretive smile. It was faint, but it was there, and his. "Y'know, when I was growin' up wid Bobby, dere was always dis . . . tension, because he was gonna be guildmaster an' I wasn't. _Père_ said it was 'cause Bobby was older, but we both knew dat was a load a nonsense 'cause I was adopted off de street an'nobody knew how old I was. Truth was dat Bobby was de natural son, an'dat gave him priority. It bothered me 'cause I was de better t'ief, an' we both knew it, an' we knew _Père_ knew it. Den one time I started rantin' about dis to my mother. An' she says, 'What'd you wanna be Guildmaster for, Remy? You gonna have yo'hands full enough workin on earnin' master t'ief before y'turn twenty-five.' An' I says, 'You really t'ink I kin do dat?', an' she says, 'I don'know a soul on dis eart' who's got a prayer of stoppin' you.'"

Remy chucked softly at the memory. "Stopped worryin' about bein' guildmaster after dat. Worked harder on my trainin', went from 'good' to 'de best' almost overnight. I was gonna do it, just 'cause she thought I could. An'after she passed on . . . kept workin', kept trainin', 'cause she'd believed I could do it an'I wasn't gonna let her down."

"Ah wish Ah coulda met your mom. She sounds like an amazing person."

"She woulda loved you."

"So, do you feel like you've let her down, joining the X-Men?"

Gambit shrugged. "_Qui sait?_ Never occurred to any of us I'd end up someplace like dis. I had it all planned out, y'know? Master T'ief by twenty-five, wealthy an' settled by thirty. I never asked her what she'd think'a me turnin' in my picks t'become a . . . a whatever-it-is-we-are. She wasn't a trained t'ief herself, dough, so maybe she wouldn't'a minded. But I mind. All my years'a work and it's just slippin' through my fingers while I study high school chemistry an' strike team tactics."

"But it's not like you're sittin' around on your butt doin' nothin' all day. You're workin' hard. You're learnin' stuff you never knew before. You're gettin' skills, just different ones."

"But I'm losin' what I had. In dis business, if y'ain't workin' t'keep ahead, you're fallin' behind. Security systems are changin', valuables are movin' around, Guilds are jockeyin' for contracts an' position an' influence. De whole business is always in flux. Another six months, a year maybe, an' my title'a 'guild t'ief' won'be worth de paper it's printed on."

Rogue slipped her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder. "So what're you gonna do about it?"

"Somethin'. Either dat, or just get used to it."

"Yeah, those are kind of your only choices."

He snorted, and let his cheek rest on her hair. "Sorry, _chère_. I know talk like dis bothers you."

"Yeah, well, you gettin' all broody and not talkin' about it bothers me worse, so talk away."

"Did I used t'do dat? Couldn't imagine not talkin' t'you now."

Rogue didn't answer, but warm contentment burned in her stomach and spread up into her face and hands. Remy took her left hand and held it in front of him, so he could see the changes of heat playing under her skin. With his infrared vision, he could see blushes and shivers that no one else would have noticed, reading her mood like a graph across her body.

He fitted his own gloved hand against hers, palm to palm.

"Whatever you decide, we're gonna be together, right?" Rogue asked. She could feel the heat of his skin through the cotton of her glove.

Remy twisted his hand the slightest bit and laced his fingers through hers. "I dunno a soul on dis earth who's got a prayer'a keepin' us apart."

* * *

"Come in, Gambit."

Gambit turned the knob and slipped quietly into Professor Xavier's office. On Sunday afternoon, the Institute was quiet—most of the household was asleep, scattered across sofas and lawn chairs across the mansion and the grounds. "Hope I ain't disturbin' you, Professor."

"Certainly not. Have a seat." Xavier closed the screen of his laptop and set the computer aside. "It's not often I have to ask this, but what's on your mind?"

Gambit smiled, grateful once again for the quirk of his genetic code that protected his mind from telepathic invasion. Professor Xavier was powerful enough to tear the world apart if he so chose. No matter how kind and wise the person who wielded it, that much power made Gambit nervous.

"I come t'consult you about an idea I've had, an'I'd like it if y'agreed t'hear me out before passin' judgment." Gambit took the chair across the Professor's desk, sitting up straight in hopes that the formal posture would encourage the Professor to take him seriously.

"I gladly agree. What's your idea?"

"I'd like t'leave de Institute and work towards becomin' a Master T'ief."

The Professor's eyebrows raised towards his no-longer-existent hairline. "Well. You certainly have that right; our original agreement allows you to leave at any time you choose."

"I don't wanna leave for good. Just long enough t'earn de rank. Year and a half, two years tops."

"It's not the time that's a concern. You know that. I respect that your upbringing has given you a different set of morals than the other students, and I'm grateful for the courtesy you've shown in obeying the rules of the Institute. But the X-Men are protectors, of property as well as of lives. If I give you my blessing in this, I go against every principle on which I founded my school."

"Your school stands for de protection of life, too, an'yet everybody here's trained in combat. You use de skills of your enemies to work against 'em. I don'wanna go t'ievin' again just for kicks an' giggles, or even for money. A Master T'ief would be a tremendous asset to de team. Infiltration, disguise, covert ops . . . all skills a'de business dat could be useful here. An'de rank of Master gives you status in de criminal world. Respect. Contacts and resources not available to anyone less trained."

"You're right; those would be valuable resources. But can we ethically accept resources drawn from illegal activity?"

"Don't see yeh fussin' about drawin' on Logan's skills, an' if you t'ink he didn't get years an' years a black ops trainin', you ain't watched him run his personal Danger Room simulations lately. De people who trained him scare de people who trained me. But he's used all dat skill t'train an'protect de students a'dis Institute, and I could do de same."

"Logan came here with all his training. If he came to me and asked me for permission to rejoin a black military unit, I would tell him the same thing I'm telling you."

"De difference dere is dat Logan's already de best in de world at what he does. I'm not, yet. But I could be. I'm close. What would yeh rather I do? Go to college? Study electrical engineerin' or social justice or management? I'm a t'ief, Professor. I'm an X-Man, too. An' I wanna be de best I can be at both. So lemme go t'my college an' study what I'm good at, an' bring back what I learn, just like any other student. I promise t'stay outta trouble. I'll even play Robin Hood if dat's what you want—steal from criminals, dictators, de corrupt an'de cruel. Dey's plenty t'go around."

Professor Xavier sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "You make a persuasive argument," he admitted at last. "What, precisely, does earning the rank of Master Thief require?"

"Most of it's building a rep. Pulling off jobs in ways other t'ieves wouldn'a thought of. Doin' everythin' dangerous, difficult, an' crazy to prove to dem as watchin' dat you ain't just another run-a-de-mill criminal. Den keepin' up dat level of performance to prove you got somet'in more dan luck. When I cause enough buzz, a current Master T'ief will sponsor me, arrange my presentation to de right people. Dey vote, an'if dey vote right, I get my rank."

"And what advantage does your sponsor receive?"

"A big cut of all my takes for de next ten years."

"But you intend to return to service in the X-Men after obtaining your rank, correct? Will that complicate your relationship with your sponsor?"

"Could. But I got a few candidates in mind, people who know me, who'd sponsor me as a favor more dan an investment. If I impress 'em enough."

"And you could achieve this in two years?"

"Yes, sir."

"Has that been done before?"

"No, sir. Not even close."

"But you think you can do it."

"Yes, sir."

"Even with, as you put it, 'playing Robin Hood'?"

"Easier dat way, actually. Lots more risk pinchin' from drug lords dan respectable collectors. They got de best security tech, an'dey ain't afraid t'shoot yeh dead de second dey catch you."

Gambit tried very hard not to let his eyes gleam at the thought. The thought of security systems, high concrete walls, guard dogs, barbed wire, automatic rifles, and the precious treasures they guarded acted on him like a drug. He was like a surfer eyeing the perfect wave, or a sprinter in the blocks staring at the open track. It was _his_ challenge, _his _adventure. After so long in very early retirement, to get back into the game . . . it was too exciting for words. He took a slow, deep breath and focused on the conversation at hand. Time enough to get psyched later. He still needed to persuade Xavier to let him do this at all.

The Professor was nodding slowly. "You make a very good argument, Gambit. I have to say that I'm impressed with the thought you've put into this. Have you discussed your plan with Rogue yet?"

Gambit shook his head. "No, sir. Wanted t'talk t'you first."

"I appreciate that. But I suppose you know that she's become very attached to you in these past months. I feel a sense of security and contentment from her that I had never dared to hope she'd have, and most of that is because of you."

"I know. She's part of de reason I wanna go. She's happy now, but it can't stay dat way forever. Before he got blowed t'kingdom come, Sinister was pushin' de envelope on mutant genetic maipulation. He was onto somethin' dat coulda helped her. Now, he's gone de way of de dodo, but dat doesn't matter. Her powers are treatable. Manageable. Dere's a way to help her; it's just a matter of findin' it. You've tried lookin' every place you know, now it's time for me t'try a few of mine."

"That's a noble goal, Gambit. But think it through. Sinister is dead. Even if he kept records, the chances are very slim that you'd ever be able to find them, and even less that you could extract anything useful from them."

"I know it's a long shot, but I've gotta try. I'm not ready t'give up on her yet."

"And whatever your goals for this endeavor, you'll have a hard time explaining them to Rogue. I'm afraid she'll take your leaving very hard."

"I wasn't plannin' on leavin' her, exactly."

Silence.

Gambit started to wonder if the Professor was trying to locate his mind under its obscuring psychic shield. He fought the urge to cringe.

"You're planning to take her with you?"

"I ain't plannin' on stoppin' her if she wants to come."

"_Absolutely_ _not_. Rogue is not a criminal. She's a young woman with a bright future in front of her, and I will not let that be destroyed by a pre-college crime spree."

"You're talkin' like you t'ink I'm gonna get us caught."

"Whether or not you're caught doesn't matter. Rogue was raised as a law-abiding citizen."

"What, by _Mystique_?"

"No, by the Institute and by her own conscience. She's a good person, who's always treated everyone as she wishes they would treat her. She can hold her head up and be proud of that. She asserts her own rights and self-worth by acknowledging them in others. I will not allow you to take that away from her. If you want to go, I'm willing to support you; you've argued your case and presented your goals well. But Rogue cannot go with you."

The part of Gambit's mind that was paying more attention to daydreaming than to the conversation, replaced his images of impossible and tantalizing challenges with a truly dreadful picture of leaving the house and not taking Rogue with him. It would tear him apart. It would tear _her_ apart. Watching her be torn apart would tear him apart again. Her super-strong hands would tear him apart if she thought this had been his decision.

He couldn't leave her behind. He couldn't.

He was on his feet before he'd realized he was thinking about standing up, angry as he hadn't been for months and months. He and Rogue had stuck together through terrorists and scientists and teachers, school and training, storms and fights and long black nights of lonely tears. And they'd come through all that just to be torn apart by Charles Xavier, a helpless old man who couldn't even walk!

Standing, he was so much taller than the still-seated Xavier. So much stronger. The Professor could stop almost any enemy in his tracks . . . any enemy but Gambit, who was immune to any telepathic attack. Against Gambit, Xavier was nothing more than a cripple.

No, that wasn't true. He was still more than that. He was still a mentor and a guide, a respected teacher, a kind man. And he was right. Gambit knew that his worldview was drastically different than that of anyone else in the Institute: it was like he was a meat-eater in a household of vegetarians. Just because _he_ was comfortable with his own unique set of ethical standards didn't mean he had any right to share them with Rogue, not when they went against so much of what she'd been raised to believe in. Gambit prided himself in living without hypocrisy, but part of that was knowing when someone else held the moral high ground.

Instead of striking a blow, Gambit took a deep breath, told Xavier, "Thank you for yo'time" through clenched teeth, and left the office.

* * *

Author's Note 1: The author would like to remind the company that _ça va_ is an endlessly useful French expression that here means "Are you okay?"

Author's Note 2: _Je crois_ is "I think," or more literally "I belive."

Author's Note 3: The DeYoung Red is a real stone that really resides in the Smithsonian's National Museum of Natural History. You can see a picture of it on their website: www(dot)mnh(dot)si(dot)edu/earth/text/2131(dot)html.

Note 4: _Qui sait?_ Who knows?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

"Coffee?"

Jean looked up from her books, a smile bringing life back into her pale, exhausted face. "Have I told you lately that you're a wonderful boyfriend?"

Scott smiled as he set down her mug and took the next chair at the dining room table. "I think it's been at least a week."

"Well, you are." She leaned over and kissed him, a quick kiss of appreciation. Then she kissed him again, self-indulgently, the caress slow and warm and lingering. Scott smiled against her mouth and let her take her time.

"Mmmmm," she hummed appreciatively when she finally drew away. "This is more fun than studying for English tests."

"Last one," Scott told her, reaching up one hand to rub some of the knots out of her neck. "Hang in there."

"You should go to bed," Jean chastised, pulling her hair over her shoulder and bowing her head to make his new job a little easier. "Aren't you taking morning training tomorrow?"

"Storm's gonna cover for me. I haven't really gotten to spend any time with you for days. Finals are a bear. And we've both have other stuff piling up, too. Did you and Hank get the grant thing settled?"

"Yeah, all the papers are in. We're just waiting on word back."

"Think you'll get it?"

"We've got a good shot. There aren't as many applications as usual this year. How'd your trig final go?"

"Ugh. Well, with a little luck, I passed, and with a lot of luck I got a grade that won't disgrace the Institute."

"Yeah, I'm sure the Professor's going to kick you out onto the street for flunking trig."

"I'll pack my bags." Scott's hand wandered up to comb through her hair. "And what's going on with Logan? Did you manage to talk to him?"

Jean groaned. "Well, I managed to _talk_ . . . I didn't manage to really get any answers."

"Well, you know how Logan is."

"Yeah, I do know how Logan is, and he's not like this. He's never let his secrets or his past hurt any of us before. Now, suddenly, it's like he's just not here anymore. Like something's come back to haunt him . . ."

"He'll make it through. We just have to be patient with him. Like the Professor said, back when Logan first showed up. You remember?"

Jean smiled. _I remember. _

He felt Jean's mind reach out to hold his, across the psychic link they'd built up over years of living and training together . . . a lifetime of being best friends and a few short years of being more. She could think inside his mind as easily as she could think inside her own. Now she wrapped him up in her memories, drawing out his, pulling them both back to that day that had changed the lives of everybody in the Institute for the better . . .

_They were hiking on the Institute grounds, in the far corners of the woods. In this rural area, their woods were sometimes home to wandering predators, like wolves and bears, but with Storm there was nothing to be afraid of._

_"Hey, look! Raspberries!" Scott scrambled through the brush towards the cluster of thickly tangled bushes, where dark red fruit peeked out from between the leaves. He grabbed for the nearest cluster, then yanked his hand back when the thorns dug into his skin. _

_"I can get them," Jean assured him. Scott was always ahead of her, even though her adolescent growth spurt had hit before his and she was now two inches taller. She shoved through the tangle, grateful for the heavy jeans and flannel shirt that Storm had made her wear. She caught her tongue between her teeth as she concentrated on the cluster of raspberries. The darkest one detached from its stem and floated unsteadily towards Scott's outreached hand. When it was still a few inches away, it stalled, then dropped. Scott lunged forward and caught it, then overbalanced into the bush._

_Jean gasped and tried to smother a giggle. "I'm sorry! Are you okay?"_

_"Yeah." Scott gingerly shoved his sunglasses back into place and popped the raspberry into his mouth. "Yum. Now I've just got to get out of here." He moved a little, then winced as thorns dug through his clothes and into his skin. _

_"Give me your hand," Jean instructed. She reached for him and tried to pull him backwards out of the bushes. He was too heavy for her; her grip slipped and he fell back into the thorns. "Sorry! Storm!"_

_Storm made her way over to them, her serene expression strained a little with something that might have been annoyance or might have been amusement. "Take my hand, Scott, and move very carefully."_

_Jean retreated; she felt a very inappropriate need to giggle, and knew that making Scott crack up wasn't going to help him get out of the raspberry bushes. Instead, she picked a new direction to explore, scrambling over some moss-covered rocks to avoid the tangle of plants._

_That was why she was the one who found him first._

_He was unconscious, sprawled haphazardly in the minimal shelter that a shallow overhang of rock could afford him. His clothes were torn mostly to shreds—the jeans, once long, were now shorts that ended in rags just above his knees, and the shirt didn't even deserve the title. Pine boughs lay scattered all around him, and when Jean looked up she could clearly see the path through the trees that he'd smashed as he'd fallen. _

_For a minute, her heart shuddered to a terrified halt. He had to be dead. She'd found a dead body, somebody's dead body, in their woods . . . Then the corpse opened one blue eye and looked at her. Jean was frozen in its gaze. It was like coming eye to eye with a tiger, or a wolf . . . something wild and deadly that saw her as food._

_It lunged, faster than should have been possible from its prone position, and Jean screamed at the top of her lungs. But the lunge fell short. With a snarl of pain and fury, it landed a few feet from her, on its stomach, six long and gleaming claws extended from its hands. But it didn't jump again. Instead, it lay writhing, claws and fingers digging into the ground as it sought something to hold onto to ease the pain. It couldn't move its legs._

_She didn't dare approach it. Even if she tried to speak to it, it wouldn't have heard over the noise of its own snarls and moans. So she took her bottom lip in her teeth and concentrated. _Don't move. Please don't move. You'll just hurt yourself more. Stay still and we'll get you some help.

_"Don't need your stinkin' help," it snarled through clenched teeth. _

_He could talk. That was a good sign. Gathering her nerve, Jean darted forward, thinking vaguely that she would try to hold him still. One of the clawed hands swiped towards her, still seeking a solid grip in the soft, crackly mess of dead leaves and rich New England soil. The blades missed her by inches. _

_Then a wind kicked up out of nowhere and slammed the writhing stranger against the nearest tree._

_Storm had arrived, Scott standing behind her with one hand gripping the earpiece of his sunglasses. Storm's hair was blowing wildly around her face, and her icy blue eyes were ablaze with fury. "If you dare to lay a hand upon that child, Creature, I will kill you where you stand."_

_The stranger panted a few times, struggling to regain the breath that Storm's blow had knocked out of him. "Looks like I landed in another freak show."_

_"Do you land in freak shows often?" asked Storm, her politeness tempered with mild sarcasm. "Wherever you have landed, you have obviously injured yourself. Jean, run to the house and have the Professor call Doctor MacTaggart."_

_"I ain't goin' to no lab," the thing snarled._

_"We will not send you to one, but unless you want to risk permanent injury you must be seen by a physician. Go, Jean. Run."_

_Jean ran._

_The stranger was still panting, one hand across his ribs and the other gripping the bark of the tree behind his head. His teeth were bared as his breath rasped through them. "Guessin' you didn't learn that wind trick in the Air Force."_

_"And I doubt those claws were installed in a body jewelry salon," Storm responded, not missing a beat. "If you are a mutant, then you have landed in the right place. You will be safe here."_

_Storm spared a glance over her shoulder at Scott, whose eyebrows had risen until they disappeared under his scruffy bangs. "_He'll_ be safe here?" Scott repeated incredulously. "What about _us_?"_

_The stranger chuckled, a low and dangerous sound that sent chills of warning up Scott's spine. "Keep your shirt on, Shades. I don't like kids. Too stringy."_

_"Well," said Storm, stripping off her jacket and approaching to lay it over his chest, "if you are adamant about not going to a hospital, then you will just have to stay with us while you heal, and in that case you will have to get used to Jean and Scott."_

_"Adamant," the stranger repeated, casting a strange, almost resigned look down at the metal claws still poking out of his hand. "Good choice of words."_

Jean pulled them gently out of their shared memory, bringing the too-bright dining room back into focus.

"It's easy to forget how he was back then," Jean admitted. "It's been so many years, and he's always been so gentle with us all. I mean, not during training, of course. But remember when he sat up in the infirmary all night with Rogue, after she absorbed Risty and had that meltdown? He fell asleep holding her hand. And when Jamie broke his arm during backwoods training last summer, Logan splinted it up and carried him out. He stayed up night after night helping us cram for the AP U.S. History test. It's so easy to forget that we used to think he was dangerous."

"Well, he's still _dangerous_. Just not to us."

"I guess so."

Scott's hand stopped moving. "You guess so?"

"I know so," Jean corrected.

Scott took hold of her arm and pulled her gently into an upright posture. "What did he _say_ to you?"

"Nothing."

Scott hesitated. "What did he _do_ to you?"

"_Nothing,_ Scott! Jeez! Come on . . . it's Logan. What would Logan ever do to me? Logan loves me. He loves all of us. It's just like you said . . . whatever's going on with him right now, he'll work through it. We just have to give him time."

"I guess. But no matter what's going on with him, he doesn't get to hurt you. _Ever._"

Jean raised her chin a little, staring Scott down. "He never, ever would."

* * *

Gambit felt like he'd been sitting in the front closet for days when he finally heard Jean go upstairs to bed. It was tricky moving around this house unnoticed at night, especially during finals when people would stay up studying until all hours. He stood up and eased open the closet door. Of course, he had every right to be anywhere he wanted, but he was out of practice and it was best to get started now.

He took the stairs down to the basement level, walking past the silent Danger Room and into the infirmary. He knew the place fairly well by now: he'd suffered enough cuts and bruises to have spent a lot of time being bandaged by Hank. And he knew that in the corner was a locked cabinet that contained confidential materials.

There were very few things in this house that anyone would actually mind him stealing. He was quite sure that if he took off with money, weapons, or even one or two of the vehicles, no one would particularly care. But the medical records were another matter entirely. Hank would remove Remy's head from his neck if he caught him in here.

He opened his pick case. The picks still gleamed: not from good care, but from many months nestled untouched in the black velvet. He selected the correct tool and coaxed open the lock on the cabinet.

Everything inside was very neat. The bottom shelf held a filing cabinet filled with medical records. Gambit flicked through them until he found Rogue's folder. There were a handful of pages in it, most of them written in Hank's flowing, professional script.

Gambit woke up the computer on Hank's desk and scanned the pages into PDFs. He copied them all onto the little gray flash drive he'd been given to store his homework assignments, deleted the documents from the hard drive, and put the files away.

The middle shelf of the cabinet held a rack of little steel tubes—self-chilled blood samples of everyone in the Institute. Rogue had two: one from before her kidnapping and one from after.

Gambit took a couple of empty ones, and measured into each of them about a third of Rogue's samples. He sealed up the vials and put them in his inside pocket. Then he locked the cabinet again and went upstairs.

* * *

Rogue rolled over, unsettled in her sleep, and woke up when she found her face pressed against Gambit's chest. His hand came up to stroke her hair. "Sh, sh, sh. Just me."

Rogue wasn't complaining. She rubbed her cheek against his coat, stirring up the warm, familiar smell of him. "Y'know it's Wednesday," she murmured. "Y'ain't s'posed to be in here."

"_Je sais_. But I had t'tell you a few things, an' it couldn't wait 'till morning. We just gonna have to be quiet and not wake up Kitty."

Rogue opened her eyes and propped herself up on one elbow. "What's goin' on?"

"I talked to de Professor a few days ago—about what we talked about in Washington. An' he gave me permission to go back to work for a while. T'get my Master T'ief's mark."

Rogue looked at him for a long minute. His eyes were glowing gently, but the rest of his face was lost in darkness.

"Tonight?"

"_Ouais_."

"For how long?"

"At least a few months, dis first stretch. De whole mess prob'ly gonna take a couple years. Like a master's degree, kinda."

"Okay." Rogue took a deep breath, revising her plans for the upcoming years. She hadn't wanted to go to stupid college anyway. "Are we in a hurry, or kin Ah write a note to Kurt first?"

His hand found her hair again, stroking and soothing. "Well, dat's de trick. De Professor only let me go on de condition dat I wouldn't take you wid me."

The sounds hit her ears like the sound of waves on the beach, or like birdsong: a meaningless noise that her brain processed more as music than as language. Then she blinked and shook herself. "What?"

"You can't come wid me, _chère._ Where I'm goin's dangerous and dirty . . . no place for a good upstandin' Institute girl. Dat's what de Professor said, an'he was right. I was raised criminal, so it's nothin' new to me. You got a lot more to lose."

"What?" said Rogue again. None of this was registering. It was not in any way possible that he was actually saying what her ears were telling her that he was saying. He could just as well have been looking her straight in the eye and telling her that the Atlantic Ocean had just disappeared. This wasn't something that happened. Not even here, where life couldn't get much stranger. There was a long, bizarre list of things that happened at the Institute, and Remy leaving without her was no longer on it. Not even near the bottom, near 'spontaneous combustion'. It just wasn't there.

"I gotta go, Rogue. One more hurdle before I do de hero thing full-time. De one challenge I never took. I can establish myself at de top of de criminal world for de rest of my life and bring skills and resources back to de team dat Xavier can't access any other way. An' you . . ."

"Ah'm goin' with you," said Rogue, but the words were more plea than declaration. "You asked me once if Ah would . . . if you had to leave, would Ah go with you, and Ah will. Of course Ah will. Ah'm not scared."

"Scared? I's de only one in dis room who's scared. You think I wanna leave dis house widout you? You t'ink it ain't gonna drive me crazy, not havin' you to talk to, wonderin' if you're okay, tryin' to fall asleep wid'out knowin' you're just down de hall? Scares me t'death. But you're too good fo'de kinda life I'm goin' back to, and I won't drag you into it. So you're stayin' here, safe and respectable, wid your family."

"Who says Ah wanna be safe an' respectable?"

"_I_ do. An'de Professor does. An' Logan, an' Kurt, an' everybody else who cares about you an'knows how much you deserve t'have."

"Ah don't care about what Ah deserve. Just what Ah want. And Ah wanna be selfish, an'reckless, an'crazy. Ah want _you_. Ah don't care how much it costs."

"I know, _chère_." He drew her face close to his and kissed the top of her head. "An'I'd love to see what kinda trouble we could get into, you bein' just as selfish, an' reckless, an' crazy as I am. But you'd hate me in de mornin', an' hate yourself, too."

Rogue moaned and buried her face in the curve of his shoulder. "Ah hate, hate, _hate_ bein' such a priss. This is 'cause Ah paid for those shoes, ain't it?"

"You payin' fo' stolen shoes is just a symptom of de reason why I'm doin' dis. Y'ain't a criminal at heart, an' I don'wanna take dat away from you." He sighed, and Rogue could feel his cheek settle against her hair. "And den, a'course, dey's de kicker dat if I _do_ take you wid me, Xavier won't let me come back. We'd both of us be homeless again, an'dey's no way in hell I'm doin' dat t'you."

Yes, that was the kicker. Rogue could take any risk for herself, but she knew how much having a home meant to Remy. They couldn't risk alienating Professor Xavier if either of them wanted to remain X-Men.

"And you decided to sneak in here at midnight to tell me all this the night you leave."

"Knew you wouldn't want t'yell at me wid Kitty asleep."

Rogue sighed. "Ah hate how you play me."

She couldn't see his grin, but she could hear it. "I love how y'cute when y'mad."

"Ah'm not mad. Ah'm . . ."

Unable to decide what she was, she slipped her arms around him and hung on tight. He embraced her, too, breathing in the scent of her as though storing it up in his lungs for later.

"You're leavin'," she whispered, and to her shame a choke forced its way into her voice. "You're really leavin'. An' you could get killed out there, and Ah can't even kiss you goodbye. Can't even . . ."

Oh, crap, now she was crying. Her hands clutched futilely at the back of his coat.

His arms gripped her tighter, one hand pressing her head into his shoulder so she wouldn't wake up Kitty. "Rogue," he whispered into her ear. "Rogue, Rogue, Rogue. I'd steal de stars outta de sky for you to wear around your neck if I could. If any money, any skill, any treasure in dis world could buy you freedom from yo'powers, I'd get it. Jus' . . . jus' promise me you won't be flirtin' it up wid Scott two weeks after I leave. Promise me you gonna be waitin' for me to come home."

"There'll never be anybody for me but you, Remy. You know that."

"And I promise—"

"No. Ah know you. You don't have to promise me anything."

He released her from their embrace, combed her hair off her cheek where her tears made it stick, then laid her down and pulled her blanket up over her shoulders. "I promise I'll stay here until you're asleep."

"Ah'll stay awake forever," Rogue threatened, her voice barely more than a breath.

His hand found hers underneath the covers. "Sooner I go, de sooner I kin come home. Go to sleep. And one a'dese nights, you'll wake up and I'll be right here. Whole trip will be just like a bad dream."

"Got that right," she breathed.

She didn't want to sleep—didn't want to let him disappear. But his hand stroked hypnotically up and down her arm, and his voice changed from conversation to a gentle murmur of French, almost a song, more music than meaning.

_"Tes dix-huit printemps sont à moi, ce colier des diamants et pour toi, les mots de mes serments, si je ments, ne l'y croiras pas. Si je ne le sais pas, je le vois dans tes yeux, celui qui t'aimera sera un homme heureux. Ne cherche plus l'amour, il est là, il est là pour toujours, je le crois, ce cera un beau jour que le jour ou l'on s'embrassera . . ."_

Reality started to fade away into dream, a hazy and uncertain dream of flying . . . then her powers abandoned her in one brief, heart-stopping second, and she started to fall . . .

Her body gave one harsh, involuntary jolt, shaking her awake. Except for Kitty's breathing, the room was silent.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows. "Remy?"

No answer. He was really, truly gone.

Rogue lay back down. She wrapped her blanket as tightly as she could around herself; it was a warm night, but she felt cold anyway. He was gone . . . gone until he'd finished what he'd set out to do, however long that took.

She buried her face in her pillow. She was going to cry eventually—all the super-strength in the world wasn't going to prevent that. So she might as well do it now, in private, and get it over with.

* * *

Author's notes: _Je sais_ is 'I know'.

In our long tradition of educating our readers in the delights of French music, we offer a link to the tune of Remy's lullaby:

www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?vhxD-sJIQpxk

It's a song from the musical _Notre Dame de Paris_, which is a fantastic show. If you're looking for something to do between updates, watch the whole thing. It's all on there. (Remy, of course, has freely modified the lyrics to suit his own purposes. Career thieves don't generally get too fussed about copyright.)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

Storm surveyed the assembled students as they milled around the Danger Room waiting for morning training to start. Scott and Jean were missing, but they'd been excused due to their late-night studying. The only other person missing was Gambit.

"Rogue," she called. Rogue turned, her hands on her head as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She held a hair elastic in her teeth. "Where is Gambit?" Rogue generally knew the answer to this question.

Rogue wrapped the elastic around her hair and tugged the ponytail tight. "He's gone," she announced, her voice flat and matter-of-fact.

Despite her nonchalance, her words brought silence crashing down on the room. "He's what?" Kitty asked.

"Gone," Rogue echoed. "He talked to the Professor, and the Professor agreed, so he left. He said he'd be back in a few months, maybe."

"Oh, _Rogue_ . . ." Amara reached out to grip her shoulder, in an awkward attempt at sympathy and solidarity.

Rogue pulled away. "Don't touch me," she ordered gently, the words more old catchphrase than command. "Ah'm okay. Really. So let's _train_, 'cause Ah'm hungry and Ah want mah stupid breakfast."

She did look okay. Surprisingly so. She was pale, of course, but that was normal for Rogue, as were the faint shadows under her eyes. But she stood up straight, and her gaze was alert and focused, her makeup perfect, her uniform clean, her shoulders relaxed. Rogue looked as calm and collected as she ever had. She wasn't glowing with irrepressible happiness, as she had been yesterday morning and for most of the school year, but she was strong. Steady. Focused. That had to count for something.

Storm turned away. If Rogue wished to handle this situation by continuing her usual routine, then Storm saw no reason to stop her. "Take your places, please. I am activating the training run."

She lifted herself up off the floor and joined Logan in the observation room above the training space.

"Rogue says that Gambit left last night," she announced, shutting the door behind her.

Logan didn't look up from the monitors. "Yeah. I passed him on my way in."

In contrast to Rogue, Logan looked a wreck. He'd been out again last night, probably picking fistfights in every roadside bar between the mansion and Manhattan. There were hollows under his eyes from lack of sleep, and he needed to shave.

"She seems to be handling it well," Storm observed, leaving out any comments on who _wasn't_ handling things well.

"She's a tough kid. About to be a tough grown-up. She can handle anything."

"Hopefully true," Storm agreed. "Did you know he was planning to leave?"

"Nope. But everybody's gotta go sometime."

Storm spared a glance for the training students below them, then focused again on Logan. "What do you mean by that?"

Logan shrugged. "I had a long night, 'Ro. Don't know much of what I mean right now."

"If you refuse to answer my question, please tell me so. Do not insult me by lying."

Logan sighed, still not looking at her. "What I meant was that there's only so long a guy can stand living in an untenable situation, and we all knew Gambit's situation was untenable. Rogue's powers. His background. Somethin' had to give. I'm just glad it was sooner rather than later. Better for everybody that way."

"You think he left because of Rogue?"

"Why he left's his own business. He decided it was best, so he went. Gotta give him credit for guts."

"But Rogue seems quite assured that he will come back."

"Maybe he will."

Storm pursed her lips and looked away. She and Gambit had grown to be good friends over his months at the Institute: they'd bonded over their shared criminal past, and he'd never been afraid to tease or challenge her. She would miss him during his absence.

Almost as much as she missed her friend Logan, with whom she had raised two children and trained many others. The Logan she'd known and trusted these many years didn't stay out all night drinking and show up to morning workout as hung over as he was capable of being. He didn't speak in riddles or try to feed her lies.

The team relied on him, for guidance, protection, and unity. Storm had no idea how she and Scott would ever manage trying to run the X-Men without him. The Institute _needed_ Logan . . . and Logan was slowly slipping away.

"Sam's still weaving when he tries to fly straight," Logan told her, still not looking up. "I _told _him to keep his eye on the target." He flipped on the intercom and bellowed, "HILLBILLY! You were supposed to wake up half an hour ago. How about you get on that?"

"Kurt, please be more careful of your orientation," Storm added. "You are losing time getting your bearings."

She stepped back and sighed, quietly. Logan was certainly in the midst of some personal crisis, but his focus was still on the students. As long as that was true, then they would all be all right.

* * *

"So he's going on some kind of, like, crime spree thing?" Kitty wanted to know.

She, Rogue, and Kurt were sitting on the lawn, their three lunches spread into one communal food collection in front of them. They could still see the younger students at the picnic table, and the rest of the team could see them, but they could converse without being overheard.

"Ah guess so," Rogue allowed. "Ah don't really know all the details. Ah do know 'master thief' is a big deal, like a PhD or something. And he was worried about gettin' rusty."

"So is he just going out and stealing stuff, or is he at some thief university someplace?" Kurt wanted to know.

"Ah think the first one. Imagine tryin' tuh run a thief university . . . how would you keep track of all your pens and stuff?"

"What if he gets caught?" asked Kitty, popping a carrot in her mouth.

"Ah think he flunks."

"And how about you? How're you doing?"

Rogue shrugged. "Okay, Ah guess. Still ticked as heck that he took off without me. Still ticked as heck that Ah _let_ him. How did Ah even let him talk me into that?"

"Well, you wouldn't actually have left," Kitty assured her. "Not with school, and the team, and everything. You can't just leave home like that."

"Gambit did."

"Well, yeah, but you're . . ."

"Ah'm what? How'm Ah so different from him, that he can leave and Ah have to stay?"

"Well, he _is _a thief."

Rogue scowled. "Ah wish tuh high heaven Ah'd never paid for those stupid shoes."

With a sigh of deep personal sacrifice, Kurt tossed the last snack cake at Rogue. "Have some sugar. It'll make you feel better."

Rogue tossed it back. "Not hungry." Kurt shrugged and tore off the cellophane. "Ah think Ah'd rather be a thief than be stuck goin' to college. What am Ah even gonna _do _in college? What'm Ah gonna study? I been pickin' a different major at random on every application."

"Pick what you're good at," Kitty suggested. "I know I wanna do science, but I'm not going to declare a major until I've done my GEs and have a better idea of what branch I'd be most interested in."

"Yeh sound like a brochure," Rogue accused her. "And Ah ain't good at anythin', except flyin'. And bench-pressin' the X-Jet. But Ah don't think that's a major."

"Vell, you're not very good at stealing stuff, either," Kurt pointed out.

"You say that because you're not her roommate," said Kitty. "She took my afghan _two years ago_ and she still hasn't given it back."

"Hey . . . Ah'm from Mississippi and you're from Illinois. Ah need it a ton more than you do."

Kurt shrugged and set about eating the rest of the food, since it looked like the girls were slowing down.

"I wonder if he'll write, or something," Kitty wondered aloud as she took one last carrot before Kurt descended upon the rest. "Or e-mail. He could e-mail, right? Or could they trace that?"

"Who's 'they'?" Kurt wanted to know.

"I don't know. Whoever's gonna be after him."

"So . . . everybody, soon enough. If I know Gambit."

Rogue rolled her eyes. "Yeah, the boy sure has a way of makin' friends and influencin' people. He didn't say if he'd e-mail, or call, or whatever. E-mail doesn't really seem like his style. Not dramatic enough. But if we wake up one of these mornings and find the Winged Victory of Samothrace on the front lawn, well, don't say Ah didn't warn y'all."

* * *

As it turned out, Gambit did write. Sort of. A week after he left, a postcard arrived at the mansion. It was of the Manhattan skyline, and had a postmark to match. The address was unmistakably in Gambit's swift, graceful-in-its-sloppiness half-cursive handwriting. There was no message written on the left-hand side of the card. Instead, the card bore a quick drawing of two playing cards: the ace of spades and the queen of hearts.

Roberto got the mail the day it came, which meant that everybody in the house new about the postcard ten minutes after it had arrived. When Rogue got her hands on the card, though, it immediately vanished from public circulation. The same thing happened to the card from Madrid, and the one from Amsterdam. After that, Rogue started picking up the mail.

Which turned out to be a good thing when she got the package.

It was just a padded manila envelope. The postmark was smudged, and the parts that she could read seemed to be in Arabic, or Turkish, or something. The return address, scrawled across the flap of the envelope, was the Institute's.

Rogue took the envelope to the far edge of the grounds, where their woods cut off abruptly at the edge of a cornfield. She landed on a boulder, relatively comfortable and extremely secluded, and sliced open the package.

To her extreme disappointment, there wasn't a piece of paper inside. Not even the smallest note on a scrap of receipt tape.

She had to set the envelope down for a minute—there was a sudden, piercing ache in her chest that made it hard to breathe. Now, more than ever, she hated herself for being so cooperative and letting him leave her behind. She'd been spared guilt, but somehow she felt that loneliness and frustration were worse. And added to that the daily burden of being calm and collected, of pretending that nothing was wrong, because she was Rogue and she was tough and independent and she was not going to let herself go to pieces in front of the whole house. Everything had to be fine. She wouldn't have Jean pitying her.

Biting her tongue to keep her emotions in check, she tipped the envelope upside-down and shook it. A tiny white object dropped out and landed in her hand.

It was a ring, surprisingly heavy for its size, a broad band made of some hard white metal. At first glance, it was unadorned, but as Rogue turned it over she saw that the embellishments were on the inside, not the outside, of the band.

On one side was a bright green emerald, tiny but clear, set into the metal so it wouldn't irritate the wearer's skin. Directly across from it was a little red-and-black stone, its gleam unsettlingly familiar. Between the gems were engravings: on one side, a capital A and a spade; on the other, a Q and a heart.

Rogue spent a long time staring at it.

She had a general idea of how rare and valuable red diamonds were—what kind of crazy stunt must he have pulled to steal one, have it set, and send it to her when he'd only been gone a few weeks? Then there was the emerald, and the ring itself . . . this thing had to be worth a small fortune, and not a penny of that fortune had been paid for. If anyone found this, she was going to prison for receiving stolen goods.

But it was so beautiful. And it was hers. Remy'd had it made for her. Even the astounding value of the trinket wasn't just for the money . . . Rogue knew that the French word for 'expensive' was _chère_.

It was such a tiny thing . . . nobody had to know she had it. Rogue caught her middle finger in her teeth and pulled off her left glove. If she wore it under the glove, it wouldn't show through.

It fit her fourth finger. Drat Remy and his attention to detail. But if nobody saw it, it didn't matter which finger she wore it on. She slipped the ring on, then pulled the glove over it. Almost invisible. Her secret.

Hers and Remy's.

* * *

It was raining. Welcome to Scotland.

Gambit knocked on the front door of the long, low, building, then stuffed his hand back into his pocket. Not that it was any dryer in there. But it was a little warmer, and it was important that he keep his dexterity. His fingers toyed absently with his Institute badge.

A light flickered on inside, and after a few seconds the door eased open. "Hello?"

"I'm lookin' fo'a Doctor Moira MacTaggart."

"You've found her." The door opened wider, and the light inside framed the form of a barefoot, middle-aged woman in a dressing gown with tendrils of red hair falling in her eyes. "Though it looks like you may've drowned yourself in the process," she observed, her voice a pleasant, musical Scottish accent. "Who're you, then?"

"De name's Gambit." Gambit pulled his hand from his pocket and showed her the red-and-black X. "Word was de name of Charles Xavier would earn a body someplace t'sleep here."

A smile, tired but pleased, appeared on Dr. MacTaggart's face. "You're one of Charles's students?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then come in and welcome."

Gambit gratefully stepped in out of the rain, wiping the last trickles of water out of his eyes. "Thank you."

"You're soaked to the skin, young man!" the doctor chided him. "Come through to the kitchen, so you can drip on summat as can be mopped. I'll put the kettle on." She indicated the correct door, then hurried down the hallway, wrapping her dressing gown more tightly around her. "Sean! It's one of Charles's students!"

"What's Charles doin' sendin' us his students with no warning in the middle of the night?" asked a man's voice.

"He didn't send me, exactly," Gambit offered as Dr. MacTaggart ushered him into the kitchen. "'Fraid I was a little underhanded. I found your name on some old medical records . . . a case you consulted on."

"Hm," said the doctor disapprovingly, opening the tap to fill up a stainless steel kettle. "I thought for sure Charles took better care of his records than that."

"Oh, he takes good care of 'em," Gambit affirmed. "I'm just very, very nosy. And I wanted t'know 'bout a friend. It looked to me like you and Professor Xavier exchanged a lotta correspondence on her back in de day."

"What's her name?"

"Rogue."

"Rogue." MacTaggart repeated the name, her voice soft and sad.

"You remember her case?"

"Oh, yes."

"What's all the commotion, then?" asked the man's voice. It was followed into the kitchen by the man himself, a robust and well-built blond of perhaps forty. His voice lilted, too, but on a different rhythm . . . probably Irish, with a name like Sean. "Evenin', young man. Trifle late for a social call, but we're glad to see you nonetheless." He offered a hand. "Sean Cassidy."

"Remy LeBeau," Gambit offered in exchange. "But 'Gambit' suits if yeh cain't roll your Rs."

"Gambit it is, then." Sean pulled up a chair at the kitchen table. "Did the Wolverine pick that one out for you, or is it of your own devisin'?"

Gambit laughed aloud. "_Non_, dat one's mine. Far as Logan's concerned, my name's 'Cajun,' 'Gumbo,' or 'Swamp Rat'."

"That sounds like his usual nice, elegant way'a phrasin' things. He used to switch between 'Irish' and 'Fat Lady' for me."

"Okay, I got de first one . . ."

"I can manipulate, amplify, an' project sound waves through me throat, strong enough to knock out an elephant. 'Fat Lady' . . . it ain't over 'till I sing."

"Once Logan gives you a nickname, it never quite unsticks," Dr. MacTaggart joked.

"And what did he call you?" Sean wanted to know.

MacTaggart shot him a friendly glare. "He called me 'Doctor MacTaggart'. Gambit, have you had any supper?"

"Not as such, no."

"How'd you even get over here?" Sean wanted to know. "I don't know anyone on the mainland who'd get themselves up to give a stranger a ride out to Muir Island in the middle of the night."

"I have my own boat," Gambit explained, quietly leaving out that he'd stolen it eighty miles down the coast and scraped off all the registration markings, and was planning on sinking it when he left. "Wid my eyes like dey are, sailin' after dark ain't a problem. I'm sorry for droppin' in on you all unexpected-like. I didn't know I was comin' here when I left New York, or I would've had de Professor call and make introductions."

"Any of Charles's X-Men are always welcome here," Moira insisted. "Half a tic, and I'll have soup on."

A heavy tread sounded on a staircase somewhere nearby. Gambit's head jerked around reflexively, on the watch for danger. What he saw instead was a dark-haired young man of about his own age, wearing only a pair of blue striped pajama pants, as tall as Storm, as muscled as Logan, and as familiar as an old friend.

Gambit jumped up. "Piotr Nikolorovisch Mouthful'aRussian Rasputin! What in all'a blue blazes—"

"If it is not the terror of the American South!" Piotr interrupted, grinning. "What are you doing here, _tovarisch_?"

"You two know each other, then?" asked Sean, as the two young men pounded one another enthusiastically on the back and Piotr scrubbed playfully at Remy's unkept hair.

"Gambit was my associate when I was under the employ of Magneto," Piotr explained. "He was the pick of a bad lot. What have you done to your hair, my friend? You look atrocious!"

"I'm in disguise," Gambit announced proudly, shaking it back out of his eyes. "Doctor MacTaggart, if you got such riffraff as dis stayin' wit'you, I might have to seek accommodation elsewhere."

He was joking, of course . . . mostly. Colossus had been the only one of Magneto's Acolytes worth giving the time of day to, and the two of them had grown to be good friends in months of avoiding Sabertooth and Pyro. But when they'd last met, Colossus had been on the hunt for a new position, a mercenary by trade if an idealist at heart. The only thing that kept Gambit from demanding outright what an Acolyte was doing at Muir Island was the equally bewildering question of what an Acolyte was doing carrying the insignia of the Xavier Institute.

"My powers were . . .becoming hard to control," Piotr admitted, sounding embarrassed. "It was increasingly difficult to revert to human form. Doctor MacTaggart found me and invited me here, where we've been working to stabilize me. In exchange, I have been helping Sean to build an addition to the complex. It is an amicable arrangement."

"How'd she find you?"

"Cerebro."

"A gift from Charles, long ago," Moira offered.

"Are you a telepath, then?" Gambit asked.

"No, I'm as ordinary as they come. Betsy runs Cerebro. It doesn't have the same range that the Institute's Cerebro has, but it's still a very useful tool. Sean, the kettle."

"Got it."

"Piotr, can you go put some clean towels in the room next to yours?"

"Yes, of course."

"Thanks. Well, Gambit, let's get you warmed up and bathed and rested, and then in the morning you can tell us what you came for, and we'll see what we can do for you."

* * *

"Man, I can't believe this is the last dinner!" Kurt moaned, pulling up his usual seat at the dinner table. "Ve're not gonna all eat together again until August. It's kinda sad."

"Yeah, packing always makes me depressed," Kitty agreed.

"Not me," Bobby announced. "Three months of freeeeeeeedom!"

"Don't you have summer reading to do?" Amara asked him.

"Yeah, but I looked at the book, and it's skinny. It'll take like no time at all."

"What book is it?" Jean wanted to know.

"Um . . . something about flies. It's got all these leaves on the cover."

"_Lord of the Flies_?"

"Yeah, that's it."

Jean pursed her lips and looked away. Scott became very interested in unfolding his napkin. Rogue, Kurt, and Kitty exchanged commiserating glances.

"What?" Bobby demanded.

"It's gonna be the worst summer of your life," Scott told him apologetically. "Sorry, man."

"It's _that_ bad?"

"Yeah. Worse."

The Professor offered his hands to Scott and Storm. The chatter around the table died down and everyone bowed their heads for grace.

When the vegetables began circling the table, Hank announced, "Well, I've got some good news."

"What is that?" Storm inquired.

"Earlier this year I applied for a research grant to map mutant DNA in conjunction with the Human Genome Project. And this afternoon . . ." He held up a letter. "I got it."

Cheers and congratulations broke out around the table. "All right!" "That's fantastic!" "That's great, Mr. McCoy." "Way to go!" "That's awesome!" "Good job!"

Hank was beaming all over his monstrous blue face. "So Jean has agreed to stay on for the summer as my research assistant."

"You're kidding." Scott looked at Jean, who was grinning and blushing from the attention. "You're staying here all summer?"

Jean nodded. "Just like the old days. You remember?"

Roberto gave a suggestive "Woooooo . . ." while pretending to take a drink of water. Amara smacked the back of his head, and water went up his nose.

Logan quietly bent both his wrists. He could feel the muscles of his arm and shoulder tense in shock and anger, to extend his claws and ward off this new threat. The blades rammed up against his adamantium-plated wrist bones. The pain cleared his head, but only for a second: the damage was healed almost at once.

She was staying all summer. Logan had been waiting, scarcely daring to breathe, for the day when she would leave and give him three months to clear his head. If he could just have a respite from her constant presence, her maddeningly wonderful scent, he'd felt sure that he could get himself under control. Maybe not enough to salvage their friendship, but enough to keep this mess from hurting the team. He'd expected her to leave tomorrow, and she was staying. All summer.

If she was staying, then he couldn't.

He waited until dark. He didn't want to field questions, not even from Professor Xavier. While he waited for the house to go quiet, he packed.

Under his bed lived a filthy, tattered Duluth backpack, a remnant of a wilder time in his life. Into it he tossed a handful of gear: a few clothes, a cigarette lighter, and a wad of emergency cash. Upon consideration, he added his Canadian passport. Getting off the continent seemed like a good idea. He needed to get away from civilization for a while, from all that was calm and organized and sensible and respectable. From everything that was like Jean.

He could hear Storm moving around in her attic upstairs. Though one of the first people in her room every night, she was usually the last to actually go to sleep. When her footsteps were silent, he left his room.

He turned on no lights; he didn't need them. He knew where his motorcycle was.

It was a perfect, silent escape, up until the moment when he wheeled the bike out of the garage and a soft southern drawl asked, "Yeh leavin', Logan?"

Logan looked up to see Rogue hop off the roof and drop like a stone to the driveway. Her face was blank, expressionless, solemn. Logan couldn't help but think of the night she'd been used to free Apocalypse, and of that same coldness she'd projected as she'd absorbed most of the household and all of the Acolytes. It was that sort of coldness that reminded him of just how powerful she could be, and how terrible, and how sad.

"Gotta go," he told her. "I'm sorry."

"Let me come with you."

"No way."

"Please." Her dull, lifeless request was more painful than any heartfelt plea could have been. "Ah'm gonna go crazy if Ah stay here one more day. Ah've gotta get out."

"Oh, no, you don't. You're just a kid, Stripes. Whatever you're goin' through, you'll get over it. I'm not takin' you where I'm goin'. Not at your age."

"Funny," Rogue deadpanned, her voice tinged with bitterness. "That's what Gambit said when _he_ left me behind. Ah'm sick of people deciding I'm not tough enough to see what's out there in the big bad world . . . like gettin' left behind is somehow less painful or less scary. That's a load a'crap. If he left me behind because I'm too innocent to go along, then it's about time Ah stopped bein' so innocent."

Logan scowled. "I'm not takin' that away from you."

"I'm choosin' to give it up. Either you let me come with you, so you kin keep an eye on me, or Ah'll just leave on mah own. But Ah can't spend one more night in the same house with his empty room. Don't ask me to do it."

For a long moment, Logan stared at her.

He'd barely seen Rogue in these past weeks, too wrapped up in his own problems to pay any attention to her. He hadn't noticed how she'd quietly started losing weight, though in training she was as fierce and focused as ever. He hadn't noticed how she'd been drawing away from everyone in the house, not talking about Gambit, but not talking about much of anything else, either. She'd been drowning in loneliness and frustration and anger, and he hadn't seen a thing.

Hadn't seen the one person in the Institute who might have been able to understand the hell that he was going through.

Every bit of sense and judgment in him screamed to send her back to bed. She was only a child . . . too young and too sheltered for him to just take her away from her home like this. There was no way the Professor would allow it. Had Logan been thinking straight, there would have been no way he would have allowed it, either.

But if he'd been thinking straight, he wouldn't have been running away.

"Go get a change of clothes and your passport, and if you wake anybody up, I'm leavin' without you."

For the first time in many weeks, Rogue smiled. She was off like a bullet towards her room.

* * *

_Dear Kitty,_

_I'm leaving with Logan. Tell Kurt I love him. You can borrow my CDs but don't let them get scratched. If Gambit calls, tell him I took it with me. He'll know what I mean. _

_Love you, roomie. I hope I'll be back soon._

_Rogue_

* * *

_Going out. Back later. Taking Rogue._

_ \\\  
_

* * *

Author's Notes:

Well, only one new word this chapter, and it's not even French: _tovarish_, meaning companion, associate, or comrade in Russian. (In the comics, Colossus called everybody this. Who's proud of me for slogging through so many decades of reading to bring you such interesting tidbits?)

Reading _Lord of the Flies_ is about as traumatic as the death of a pet. At least, in my opinion.

In other news, I've been playing around with my options on and discovered I can make forums. I'm not sure why I'd want to make a forum, but I did, just for kicks and giggles. So if you have a minute, come visit my forum and write something! Field a theory, recommend a movie, or just expound on why _Lord of the Flies_ is an awful book. We are at www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/myforums/Seriana(underscore)Ritani/1383030/.

Seri


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

Gambit woke up in a soft bed. He was warm, and safe, and clean, but without thinking about it he let his hand reach out to where Rogue's head would have been, nestled against his side or pillowed on his chest, if this were a weekend morning at home. She wasn't there.

Sighing, he rolled out of bed and grabbed for his clothes. They'd dried overnight, but were still stiff with salt. He had clean things on the boat; these would do until he could go recover his bag.

He dressed himself and once again tried to tie back his hair. It was still too short. There was another twinge of homesickness—Rogue's hair was a similar frustrating length, and listening to her moan about it had taken his mind off his own vanity. Oh, well. It would grow, and be long enough to be presentable by the time he got home.

He descended to the kitchen. It was still raining outside, but indoors everything was bright and cheerful. The Russian was making breakfast, and the warm smell of the gas stove mixed with the scent of brewing coffee. There was frying meat sizzling in a pan, the sound a pleasant counterpoint to the icy staccato of raindrops against the windows.

Someone new was seated at the table, her back to the door, a newspaper in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. Since there were several empty chairs around the table with better views of the room, this person either didn't know anything about the importance of minding her surroundings or didn't care. Her hair was remarkable: a perfectly straight, well-cared-for stream of lilac purple hanging gracefully down her back. As physical mutations went, she could have had worse.

Gambit entered the kitchen, his steps careful and silent so as not to disturb her reading of the paper. "Mornin', Colossus."

The woman with the purple hair jumped, then shrieked as hot coffee spilled onto her shirt. She pulled the fabric away from her skin, wincing as she turned to see who had startled her.

"Betsy," asked Colossus evenly, not looking up from the frying pan, "Have you met Gambit?"

Gambit got a dishtowel from the sink and soaked it in cold water, then offered it to Betsy. "Sorry. I have dat effect on telepaths."

"What, do you make us all spill our drinks all over ourselves?" she asked, a touch of sarcasm in her voice. Her accent was English, high-class and elegant. All they needed was a Welshman to represent the entire U.K. "Goodness' sake, it's like you're not there at all. What _are_ you?"

"Just another freak'a nature," said Gambit amiably. "Gambit."

She smiled wryly at him, but didn't shake his hand—she was too busy dabbing coffee out of her shirt. "Psylocke. Don't sneak up on me again."

The Muir Island Research Center was as large as the Xavier mansion, minus the hangar for the X-Jet, but it was occupied only by these four: Sean, Betsy, Piotr, and Doctor MacTaggart. They were older than the Institute students, and there were fewer of them, but the camaraderie and casual acceptance of mutant powers gave the place the same kind of atmosphere. Betsy casually answered questions that hadn't been asked and responded to comments that were still only nebulous thoughts; Colossus fished eggs out of a pot of boiling water with one armored hand; Sean, having left the refrigerator door open, closed it from across the kitchen with one inaudible cry.

Doctor MacTaggart was the head of the household here, like Professor Xavier was back in New York. But the relationship between her and her crew was more casual than the arrangement at the Institute. For one thing, she showed up at breakfast fresh from the shower, a towel still wrapped around her hair. For another, she left most of the decision-making to Sean, quietly eating her food and nodding her approval to everyone's plans for the day. Sean and Piotr were going to continue cutting lumber for the addition they were building, working inside to avoid the rain. Betsy was working on a system upgrade for the center's computers. And Doctor MacTaggart was going to have a chat with Gambit.

After breakfast, and after Gambit had run out to the boat to grab a change of clothes, he sat down in Moira's office. There was a locked filing cabinet behind her desk. Gambit's eyes sized up the lock: a joke. Child's play.

"So, then," said Moira, sitting on the edge of her desk and crossing her arms. "What is your interest in the Rogue?"

"Rogue's a very dear friend a'mine," said Gambit, stifling his annoyance at the definite article tacked onto Rogue's name. "She an'I've been through a lot together. Seen some things. Seen solid evidence that there might be a medical, scientific way t'get her powers under control. So I'm lookin' into it."

MacTaggart surveyed him. Though her demeanor was calm, he could see the interest burning in her eyes.

Finally, she said, "I can't discuss a patient's medical history with anybody unless I have permission from that person's legal guardian."

"Call Professor Xavier. I'm out here wid his blessing . . . well, his permission, at least."

"All right. I'll call, and see what he says."

She picked up the phone from its cradle on her desk and hit a button. She had the Institute on speed dial.

Her conversation with Professor Xavier was brief and professional. Gambit sat back and pretended not to be listening until MacTaggart handed him the phone. "He'd like to speak to you."

Gambit accepted the phone. "Evenin', sir." At least, he thought it was evening. Time differences were tricky to calculate when you were always on the move.

"Gambit." The Professor's voice was tense on the other end of the line. "Do you know where Rogue is?"

Gambit felt every muscle in his body go tense. "Ain't she there?"

"She was gone when we all woke up this morning. So was Logan. There was a note . . . they left together."

"What?"

Cold shock ran through every vein of his body. Rogue . . . gone. He'd been counting on her, to be there waiting for him when he came home. She'd left? How could she have left? With _Logan_?

"Gambit, you must tell me the truth. Did you have anything to do with this?"

"Upon my life an' my honor, Professor Xavier, I had no idea. I told her to stay. I thought she was gonna. I never let her know where I was, so dey's no way she's followin' me. I got no idea where she is. Look, I'll get a flight tomorrow, I'll come home, try t'track her—"

"No, Gambit. It's all right. If she's with Logan, I'm not concerned for her safety. I just wanted to be assured that this wasn't of your doing."

"I promised you I wouldn't take her wid me. I ever given you reason t'doubt my word?"

"You haven't. But the message Rogue left was a bit . . . confusing."

"What'd she say?"

"Hold on for a moment. I'll get Kitty."

It was a short moment, since it took Xavier no time to contact Kitty and Kitty herself didn't have to bother with doors on the way to the phone. "Gambit?"

"_Salut, Minou_. What happened?"

"She and Logan, they just . . . left. They took his bike. I mean, with Logan it's not such a big deal, 'cause he's done it before, but everybody's all freaked out 'cause why would he take Rogue, too? She's been kinda depressed since you left . . . she misses you . . . but nobody ever thought that she was so upset she'd just _take off!_"

"De Professor said she left a message."

"Yeah." There was a rustling of paper. "It wasn't much, but there was one bit for you. _If Gambit calls, tell him I took it with me. He'll know what I mean._ You know what she means?"

Gambit's thoughts flashed back to the ring, the first spoils of his crime spree. He'd sent it home with no protection, no note . . . it was safer that way, beneath anybody's notice, untraceable. But the gems and the engravings had all been for her, a string of messages she would have understood . . . his love for her spelled out in platinum and precious stones. If she'd taken the ring with her, then she hadn't run out on him, in vengeance for his running out on her. She'd just gone on a quest of her own. But she'd come home to him, just as he would to her. Her promise was buried in her otherwise-cryptic message. Sign and countersign between them.

"_Ouais._ I know what she means. Can't explain it all, but she's gonna come back. Don't worry about her."

Kitty sighed. "Man, why didn't you just call yesterday?"

"I wish I had." One day . . . why hadn't he been one day faster? "_Ecoute_. If she calls, go ahead an'tell her you talked to me. I'm thinkin' about her. I miss her. And I want her to come home safe. Got that?"

"Can I tell her you're at Muir Island?"

"You can tell her I _was_."

"Okay. Take care of yourself, Cajun. We're all worried about you over here."

"Back at you. Good summer."

"Good summer."

Gambit ended the call and set the phone down on the table. His head was spinning, but he forced his expression to remain calm and neutral. He glanced up at MacTaggart, who was watching him warily.

"Charles gave me permission to discuss Rogue's case with you," MacTaggart told him. "His exact words were, 'He probably knows most of the details already'."

_Zut_. It was so hard to steal things discreetly when Hank and Logan knew his scent so well.

MacTaggart unlocked her records cabinet and pulled out a folder. "When Rogue joined the Institute, Professor Xavier sent me her records and some samples. He hoped that I'd be able to find a way to help her manage her powers, as we'd been able to do for other students before her."

"And what'd you find?"

"Nothing useful. Without drastic testing . . . the kind that no one in his right mind would ever perform on a living human being . . . there's no way of knowing how far her powers could stretch, or if they could be limited by any means other than the most simplistic." She pulled out several sheets of plastic, like CAT scans, and held one up to the light. "This is Rogue's brain, a scan taken right after she came to the Institute. Like all manifested mutants, you can see a hyperactive spot right _here_. Now this scan was taken while her power was active . . . she was absorbing another student who'd volunteered to help with the test. You can see the flare in this area of her brain, a region connected to involuntary autonomic functions, like heartbeat or digestion. This region here controls voluntary movements, like arms and legs. But as you can see, there's no corresponding flare. Her absorption is completely involuntary. She could sooner stop her heart from beating."

Gambit nodded. "But dey's chemicals dat can affect involuntary reactions. In fact, dat's what drugs are for."

"I wouldn't even know where to start."

"Well, dat's where I come in. Dere's a geneticist . . . _was_ a geneticist . . . called Sinister. He seemed pretty confident he could make her a suppressant, if he hadn't made one already."

MacTaggart stared at him incredulously. "A geneticist named _Sinister_."

"_Called_ Sinister. I didn't get a chance t'check his passport. You'd remember him if y'ever saw him, though. Red eyes, spiky teeth. Not a mutant, but definitely a freak."

"And he implied he had the means to a suppressant?"

"He had somethin'. He could do things wid drugs I never thought was possible. Put a power in a syringe and plug it into whoever he wanted. Induce early manifestation. An' shut off voluntary powers like a lightswitch. De man was a genius."

"Where did he work? Who were his sponsors, his colleagues? Was he affiliated with a university?"

"Dat's what I gotta find out. He was workin' in de dark when I knew him, usin' research methods dat woulda made Hitler blush. But he had a ton'a money comin' in from someplace. If I can trace it, mebbe I kin find what's left of his work. See if we can salvage something from it that'll help Rogue."

"I wish I could help you, Gambit. But I've never heard of anyone named Sinister. There are very few scientists who are seriously studying human mutation. Besides me, and Hank McCoy in New York, I can count the projects on one hand. There's a team in Los Angeles, a couple of researchers in St. Petersburg . . . there was someone working at the University of Paris, but his samples were stolen about a year ago . . ."

"Let's back up to dat one," Gambit interrupted. "Sinister stole dose samples."

"How do you know?"

"I was kinda there at de time. What kinda project was it?"

MacTaggart crossed the room to a bookcase and pulled out a medical journal. "The researcher's name is Olivier LeFevre. He and his partner, Robert Windsor, were the first ones to identify the genetic markers unique to mutants. Windsor also developed the mutant aspect classification system."

"Like 'A' powers an' 'B' powers?"

"Yes, that's the shorthand. Technically, it's Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Omega powers."

"Cause Sinister used that. He called Rogue a '4A'. Look, who is dis Robert Windsor guy?"

"You think he's your Sinister?" asked MacTaggart, flipping through the journal in her hands.

"Used de same scaling system, studies in de same field, an' I always did wonder how he got so knowledgeable about de security systems at dat university."

"Well . . . this paper was published from Paris, but this was five years ago." She pulled out another journal and checked the table of contents. "LeFevre kept publishing after that, but Windsor dropped out of all notice. I don't think I've seen a paper from him since then."

"Sounds promising." Gambit leafed through the journal she'd left on the table, scanning the article on mutant genetic markers. It could just as well have been written in Chinese. "Listen, Doctor MacTaggart. I ain't a geneticist . . . just barely became a high school grad, if I didn'flunk history . . . an' all dis is just a muddle to me. But if I could bring you Sinister's stuff, could you work with it to find a way'a helpin' Rogue?"

"Well, it depends greatly on what you bring me. And I'd need fresh samples from Rogue, documentation . . ."

Gambit reached into his pocket and pulled out the two vials and his flash drive. "Done. What next?"

MacTaggart stared at the collection of objects on the desk. "Did you have her permission to take these?"

"Yes," Gambit lied. "What else you need?"

"Well . . . developing experimental drugs is expensive; I'd have to convince a university or a pharmaceutical firm to sponsor the research, and accumulating that kind of funding takes time."

For the first time in a while, Gambit allowed himself a grin. "Doctor MacTaggart, ma'am, you agree t'help me out on dis, and funding will be no problem at all."

"And why's that?"

"I'm in de midst of a . . . project. Fo'de Institute. And one byproduct of dis project is gonna be lots and lots a'money." Gambit stood up and bowed, with the old-world formality that only looked so natural on him because he'd been raised with it. "I'd best be headed t'Paris t'look up Olivier LeFevre. I'll swing back when I have somethin' t'report. _Merci mille fois _fo'your hospitality an' your assistance, Doctor."

"Moira," said Doctor MacTaggart, sounding rather dazed. Her brows were knitted and her head cocked sideways, as though she were trying to decode him like a DNA sequence.

"Moira," Gambit repeated. He grinned and left the office.

* * *

As soon as the door was closed behind her unusual houseguest, Moira picked up the phone again and hit redial.

"This is Charles Xavier."

"Charles, it's Moira again. This Gambit of yours . . . I know he's your student, and of course it's not my place to be questioning how you run your school . . . but Charles, if I didn't know better, I'd say that young man was a con artist of the first water."

She could hear Xavier's chuckle at the other end of the connection. "He's certainly a professional. Gambit has some very unorthodox methods, but he's an X-Man, and I trust him."

"Are you _sure_? Betsy couldn't read him."

"Neither can Jean or I."

"Charles, you know more than anyone that the Center can't afford to get in any kind of legal trouble . . ."

"Neither can the Institute. He's always been very careful about upholding our reputation. Whatever he's got up his sleeve, it's best to just stand back and let him work. I trust my students, and Gambit is no exception."

Moira sighed. "If you say so, Charles."

* * *

It was unsettling what firelight could do to people's faces. Logan considered Rogue's as she sat across from him, her knees pulled up to her chest. Though he knew she was just thinking, it was hard not to imagine that she was pondering the very flames of hell, the way the light and shadows played across her face.

It was cold out—the sun had set a few hours ago, and summer hadn't yet arrived in the dark, wild forests around the U.S./Canada border. Logan didn't mind it: he thrived on extreme conditions. And he knew that Rogue barely felt the chill. In the days they'd been on the road (was it three now? Four? It was hard to remember) she'd never spoken a word of complaint. She'd never even asked where they were going. They were two old friends, sitting together by one fire, wrapped in separate sorrows and divided by a wall of silence.

"Do yeh think they're worried about us . . . back home?"

It was the first piece of non-necessary conversation that had passed between them since they'd left the Institute.

Logan extended his claws to push a log deeper into the heart of the fire. "About you, probably. Maybe not about you bein' hurt, but about why you left."

She set her chin on her knees, her eyes rising from the hypnotic flames to meet his. "And you think they ain't worried about why _you _left?"

Logan shrugged. "Everybody knows I got issues."

Rogue couldn't argue with that. Her eyes dropped to the fire again.

"Ah been thinkin'," she announced at length.

Logan scoffed. "Not a lot else to do out here."

"Ah was thinkin' about that time I stole somethin'."

"The shoes?" asked Logan, sparing a glance for the cheap, torn sneakers on her feet.

Rogue snorted. "The shoes don't even count. Ah paid for these. Just a little later than Ah would have normally. Nah, Ah'm talking about _these_." She pulled off her glove and shoved her hand into the fire. The flames coiled through her fingers, not leaving so much as a blister.

"That wasn't your fault."

"If one more person gives me that patronizing crap, I'm gonna break his arm," Rogue informed him. "Ah don't _care_ if it was mah fault. Ah don't _care_ if anyone blames me. Ah stole these powers from somebody. On Gambit's best day, he never took anythin' as valuable as that. Face it . . . I'm genetically predisposed to be the best thief the world has ever seen."

Logan was quiet. In his long, long life, he'd learned the value of silence.

"Sinister told me her name," Rogue continued. "_Carol Danvers._ She had some kinda beef with Mystique, which is why Mystique chose her for mah test victim. Funny . . . Ah feel like I woulda gotten along with anybody Mystique hated that much."

"Mystique hated a lotta people."

"Who _was_ she, though? Is she even still alive? Did her powers ever come back to her? And why do I have to remember so little about her? Not even her face."

"The Professor blocked it. To keep you safe."

"Safe from what? Guilt? Conflict? _Trauma_?"

"Maybe from having your head ripped open by whatever's going on in there. I _saw_ you freak out that day on the coast. It was _hurting _you."

"Yeah, well, fire used to hurt me, too. Ever since it happened, Ah've just been takin' the Professor's word for it . . . that it'd be too much for me to handle. But it always bothered Gambit that Ah never asked any questions about what really happened to me. And if Ah wasn't willin' to ask . . . even to see the face of the person Ah hurt . . . then maybe he was right. Ah wasn't ready to deal with the consequences of what Ah'd done. But Ah'm askin' now."

Logan sighed. "I don't know much I can tell you. I think she was blonde, from something Gambit said. But I never asked any more than that. It wasn't my business. And you bounced back so well from that mess . . . none of us wanted to mess that up by prying. I think the only person who knows who she was is Professor Xavier."

"And me," Rogue insisted. "It's all in here . . ." she tapped her fire-warmed hand on her forehead. "Everybody Ah ever absorbed is up here someplace. Just a matter a'diggin' her out. My psychic blocks are gettin' weaker . . . her memories are startin' to leak through. Ah kin get 'em out, if Ah try."

"Hey." Logan reached across the fire and gripped her still-gloved hand. "Be careful. I'm all for you doin' what you think is right, but I don't want to see you get hurt. We're on our own out here. You got no psychic safety net."

Rogue hmphed. "Ah knew Ah shoulda made Jean come with us."

Logan dropped her hand. "No room on the motorcycle for three."

* * *

Author's Notes:

As a reminder, _Minou_ is 'Kitty'. (And _salut_ is 'hi', but I'm sure you all know that by now.)

_Ecoute_: 'listen', as in a command.

_Merci mille fois_: a thousand thanks. (I'm almost positive this one has popped up, too, but nothing like a refresher.)

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

Paris was a good city. Good ground for hunting in.

Gambit had forgotten how different it was to be a predator upon society instead of a productive member of it. It felt thrilling, powerful, and a little wicked. When he was hungry, he stole something to eat; when something occurred to him as a good idea, he did it, with hardly a moment's consideration for what Professor Xavier would think. He wandered the city at his leisure, sometimes returning to the apartment he'd rented in the 17th arrondissement, other times sleeping in heroin dens or down back alleys, never reporting to anyone. And he was free to try his skill and creativity against some of the best security systems on the market.

It was all a game. A high-stakes, high-pressure, double-or-nothing game for his reputation, his life, and Rogue's future.

He missed her. Someday, he promised himself, when everything was settled and life was quiet, he'd bring her here. He'd show her around the city and brag about his takes, and she'd scold him, and he'd pretend to be annoyed but secretly revel in the attention. They'd wander the streets by day and hit the _discotheques_ at night and watch the sun rise at the top of the towers of _Notre Dame_ at dawn. He'd show her everything; she'd pretend not to be impressed; they'd be together and know for certain that _nothing_ would ever break them apart.

To that end, he paid a call on Dr. LeFevre of the University of Paris to ask after Robert Windsor.

"I never met the man," LeFevre admitted.

Gambit was careful to manifest only the appropriate amount of surprise. He was sitting in LeFevre's office, wearing a wool-and-synthetic sweater that had struck him as something Scott would like and trying very hard not to blink too much over those dratted contacts. "But you published a paper wid him," he insisted, trying very hard to stifle his accent—Parisians had a hard time understanding him or taking him seriously if he spoke broad _Cadien_.

"Oh, yes. He was a genius, a brilliant researcher. But he never came to Paris. All our collaboration was over the internet, or through the mail."

"Ain't dat odd?"

"Yes, extremely. But his results were so unerringly good that I wasn't too worried about it. In hindsight, maybe I should have asked a few more questions. The theft of my samples brought my research to a complete standstill. We still haven't recovered. As far as I knew, Windsor was the only man alive who truly understood the value of the collection, or would have had the resources to steal it so quietly."

Remy shoved any guilt or self-congratulation to the back of his mind. That was an old job. It was behind him. He had to focus on the new problem. "You said he'd mailed you somet'in. Where'd it come from?"

"Italy. He taught genetics at the University of Florence."

"Are you sure?"

"Not terribly. That's what he told me. Wait a moment . . ." LeFevre reached for a file box on the bottom shelf of his bookcase and extracted an old padded envelope full of papers. "He sent me a few things, and I've just left these in their envelope. The postmark says Florence, at least."

"Okay." Gambit glanced at the return address: it was an office on the university's campus. "It's a start. _Merci_ fo'your time."

"You never said why you were interested in Dr. Windsor," LeFevre observed as Gambit rose to go.

"He owes me money," Gambit answered serenely. "Gotta be gettin' to work now." He checked his watch: just enough time to get inside the bank before it closed.

Bank jobs were graceless things, hard to manage with one person, and hard to keep quiet for any length of time. But they were a simple, straightforward way to collect copious amounts of money, and the difficulty would just make the job more impressive.

Remy'd done his research well. He knew the building inside and out: every camera, every laser, every lock, every guard. He'd even rented a safe-deposit box to get a good look at the vault. He concealed himself until the bank was quiet and dark, then carefully made his move.

He only took small things . . . gems from the safe deposit boxes, access codes jotted on the back of a piece of receipt tape, a handful of extremely large bills . . . and left the bank quietly, without setting off any alarms. There were still a few hours before anyone noticed he'd taken anything, which meant he had those few hours to get this stuff out of France and into Switzerland. No one ever asked where the money in Swiss banks came from.

He'd walked three blocks away from his target when he became aware of somebody following him.

The man wasn't attempting to keep hidden. At this hour of the night, a body'd have to be invisible not to be noticed on the deserted street. Remy reached into his pocket and slipped open the pack of cards inside. He'd been very pleased with how quietly all this had gone down, but he was more than willing to blow his way to safety if he had to. He slowed his walk, giving his tail the opportunity to catch up if that was his goal.

The man maintained his pace, and within a few more blocks they were walking in step.

"_Pardonnez,_" the stranger began; he was only a few inches shorter than Gambit, but his quintessentially Parisian long, dark coat concealed his build. "Could you tell me, _monsieur_, to whom belong the stars?"

Gambit didn't slow his pace or let his expression alter, but his heart soared in excitement. Calmly, he gave the response he'd memorized in his childhood: "The stars belong to he who has de will to claim 'em, _monsieur._"

"And who is such a man?"

"Neither I, nor my father, nor my father's father, but perhaps among my sons, or the sons a' my sons, such a one may be found."

Sign and countersign. Guild thieves knew one another anywhere.

"_Très bien._ Perhaps, _mon frère_, you would do us the honor of presenting yourself to my fellows. Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient?"

"Perfectly."

The stranger murmured an address. "Four o'clock, if you would."

"_Bien sur."_

_"Merci."_

_"Je vous en prie."_

They parted without further sign.

Gambit turned two corners and walked four more blocks before he allowed himself to grin. _YES! _The Sovereign Guild of the Thieves of Paris had decided to take notice of him.

* * *

After ten minutes, it seemed like Logan just wasn't going to say it. So Rogue did. "Well . . . here's the Pacific."

Here it was indeed. Nothing but steel-gray water as far as the eye could see. End of the road.

"Good eye," Logan deadpanned. His hands were still on the handles of his bike, though the engine was idling.

"So . . . are we gonna turn around and go back to the Atlantic?"

"Nope."

"South?"

"Nope."

A brief pause of trepidation—they were already as far north as Rogue cared to go. "Yukon?"

"Nope."

Rogue contemplated the endless expanse of nothing. "Ah always did wanna see if I could fly over an ocean. Ah would've liked to start with a smaller one, though."

Logan snorted. "We'll do it the easy way. Up the coast to Ketchikan, then we'll hire a plane to take us out to Adak, in the Aleutians. After that, we just island-hop, no more than a couple hundred miles at a stretch. Think you can manage that?"

"Are we takin' the bike?"

"Depends. You think you can haul it?"

Rogue considered. "Probably. Nothin' like trying. But is it gonna be really useful in Siberia?"

"We're not goin' to Siberia."

"Oh. Okay." She settled back into her increasingly uncomfortable seat and picked her feet up. "Not-Siberia, here we come."

Ketchikan was another day's ride, but with Rogue flying a couple of shortcuts over the vast and deserted Canadian wilderness they managed it in about ten hours. It was late when they finally arrived, and the little town was quiet, if not dark. This far north, the summer daylight lasted a lot longer than it did in New York.

Logan parked the bike among a collection of others outside a rickety, solitary building whose windows framed neon signs advertising "Pool," "Chili," "Burgers," and "Cold Beer." Rogue swallowed. She couldn't help it. She'd never been inside a bar. The closest she'd ever been was the Cajun in New York, and that vibrant, colorful nightclub was a far cry from this grim and grimy building. But at least it was light inside.

Logan turned in his seat to shoot her a glance over his shoulder. "Wanna go home yet, Stripes?"

Rogue took a deep breath and shook her head, settling her ratty old army jacket more comfortably across her shoulders. She swung off the bike and reminded herself to stand up straight. Nothing in that place could hurt her. Her fear belonged to another lifetime.

"It's a rough joint," Logan told her. "No place for kids and no place for ladies. But it is a good place for quick cash, which is what we need to charter a plane. So just keep quiet. Leave if you need to."

Rogue nodded.

The place was fairly quiet. They both ate something, and Logan had a beer, though he wouldn't let Rogue have anything stronger than Coke. But the longer they stayed, the more crowded the little space became. Eventually, there were upwards of two dozen men of varying sizes and odors maneuvering around one another and the bar's scanty furniture.

Somewhere above the noise, a clock chimed. As if they'd been waiting for the hour to strike, everyone in the bar headed for a single door in the back. Logan and Rogue followed.

A man with a shaved head and an incomprehensible tattoo on his neck gave Rogue a shove as she approached the doorway. "Little girls not allowed, Princess."

Logan shoved back, snarling and showing his teeth. "She's with me."

The tattooed one eyed Logan suspiciously, but didn't push the issue further.

The big back room was crowded and dim, and reeked of tobacco and sweat and beer and blood. Logan shoved her towards the furthest corner, out of the minimal light afforded by one bulb at the middle of the room. All around them, money was changing hands: some American, some Canadian.

"How much cash you got left?" Logan asked her.

Rogue checked her pocket and pulled out what was left of her saved-up allowance. "About thirty."

Logan nodded. "We'll manage, then."

Rogue hesitated for a second, then asked, "Fight club?"

"Yeah."

"You're gonna . . ."

"Not 'till they've all blown off some steam fightin' each other. The fewer fights, the less chance somebody starts wondering why I ain't got any bruises yet. That, and it helps if they're drunk."

Rogue nodded. She was still calm, but it was artificial, more leftover blankness from the shock of Remy's departure than any actual comfort with this disgusting place.

A ring cleared in the middle of the room. Into it stepped three people: the first pair of fighters and the announcer, probably given his job because he could bellow above the noise of the entire crowd. One of the fighters was the shaved guy who'd pushed her. The other was smaller and leaner, but he stood up straighter and had an air of confidence that somehow made him the scarier of the two.

There were no rules in these matches. Anything was a fair target: fingers, groin, eyes, teeth. One contestant broke his opponent's nose by grabbing his head and cracking it against his knee like a melon. Blood spattered across the crowd, and several fat drops landed on Rogue's face. She hurriedly wiped it away from her eyes and lips, recoiling in disgust and fear of disease.

After eight or nine matches, Logan stepped up. He slapped a twenty into someone's hand as he crossed into the ring, shedding his jacket and shirt and leaving them on the filth-strewn floor. His opponent was at least six inches taller and every bit as hairy. He had one black eye from an earlier fight. Logan shifted into a fighting crouch, knees bent, weight forward, sizing up his target. His lips were pulled back over his teeth, and he snarled a little with every careful breath.

This man . . . this wild animal in a seething den of other wild animals . . . was the same man who grumbled half-heartedly when Roberto ran inside without remembering to shut the front door. He was the same man who called Kitty 'Half-Pint' and who held Rogue tight when her powers seemed too much to bear. He was the kindest, gentlest, most wonderful man Rogue knew or could imagine, and here he was, growling and raging like a rabid wolf. Who was he, really? Who were any of them?

The fight was longer than previous matches had been, stretching to a minute and a half. Logan threw it. Rogue, who'd been sparring with him for years, could see that he was throwing it. He let the monster he was fighting get away with all kinds of sloppiness: losing his balance, losing his focus, striking too slow, dropping his cover. But Logan let himself be battered to the floor.

The announcer knelt next to him as he raised himself to all fours. His question was lost in the noise of the room, but Rogue saw Logan nod and climb to his feet. "He wants another shot!" the MC announced. "One more round!"

Logan caught her eye across the smoke-obscured crowd and jerked his head towards one of the men collecting money. Gulping down her nervousness, Rogue pulled out her cash. "On that guy," she announced, handing over the bills and pointing at Logan.

"Long odds, honey. Good luck," the bookie told her before turning his attention to the other handfuls of cash being shoved in his face.

Logan twisted his neck, popping the vertebrae. He and the other fighter squared off again, and this time the Wolverine was working.

It took thirty seconds. Logan wasn't even trying. A feint, a dodge, and a few strikes of unbreakable adamantium against all-too-breakable human bone, and it was over. Rogue found herself with her hands full of cash.

Logan nodded to her as someone stepped up to try their luck at him. She bet everything she'd just taken, her hands shaking from the mix of sensory overload and strange excitement. Logan was grinning as he took his stance. This was no longer just business; now he was having fun.

And before she knew quite what she was doing, Rogue was having fun, too.

Inside of fifteen minutes, Rogue had more money than she'd ever held in her life, and every time Wolverine won she couldn't help but shriek out her approval over the noise of the rest of the crowd. This wasn't Danger-Room, just-for-training violence, or even on-a-mission, for-the-greater-good violence. This was just about winning. It was filthy and pointless and bizarrely, frighteningly addicting. Some distant corner of her mind wondered what the Professor would say . . . wondered if he even knew how Wolverine paid for his occasional forays into nowhere. She ignored it. The Institute was a million miles away, so distant it seemed a figment of her imagination. She was in the middle of the wilderness. If she wanted to scream, she'd scream, or cheer, or swear, or push or shove or bully or gamble or steal. They were all wild animals here. Tomorrow they could be ashamed, but tonight, everything was blood and sweat and adrenalin and endorphins.

Logan stepped out of the ring, picking up his shirt and tugging it back on. "How much we got?" he demanded over the noise.

"Ah dunno . . . a lot."

He eyed the bunches of bills in her hands. "Should be enough. Let's go."

"One more?"

"I'm tired, Stripes. You want one more, you fight it yourself."

Rogue glanced from her teacher to the ring, wondering just how serious Logan's joke was.

"Any more takers? Anyone ready to stand up and win back some of that hard-earned cash?" the announcer demanded.

It was a crazy impulse, but she went with it. The time for hanging back and second-guessing had ended when Remy left.

"Yeah!" she yelled, shoving their winnings into Logan's hands. She pushed through the crowd into the ring and stood proud in the dim light of the swinging fixture overhead.

A roar, interspersed with jeers, rose up from the surrounding crowd. A few rough hands grabbed at her jacket and her jeans, but she slipped out of their reach.

"This ain't TaeBo, little missy," the announcer warned her, but he was grinning. No, leering.

"Coulda fooled me, the way all these girlymen been fightin'," Rogue taunted back. "So is somebody here gonna bring it, or what?"

There was a roar of approving laughter.

"Sure, I'll take 'er." A huge bear of a man, his mouth a motley collection of twisted and missing teeth, stepped into the ring. "Come on, Sweetheart. Show me what you got."

Rogue found herself grinning.

Years of frustration and resentment bubbled up inside her—endless taunts in the hallways of Bayville High, the monotonous cycle of intimidation and confrontation and unjust punishment, all the times when Scott or Kurt or Kitty had held her back from venting her temper on some stupid bigot who wasn't worth the effort. She'd been hurt and bullied all her life and hated every second, but just this once she was hitting back, because she could, because she wanted to, because it felt good, because she was sick to death of being a 'good mutant.'

She leaned into a back stance, resting most of her weight on one leg, and brought up her fists to guard her face.

Behind her, she heard Logan announce, "All of it on the girl. Yeah, all."

Her opponent lunged forward, testing her reflexes, trying to scare her. Rogue pulled backward in response, but stayed well away from the outer edges of the ring. Then he lunged, intending to get a grip on her and either squeeze her into unconsciousness or toss her out of the ring. Rogue dodged sideways, letting his momentum carry him past her, and pivoted into a spin kick that landed with all-but-superhuman force in the small of his back.

He stumbled, but recovered. Rogue gave him time to find his balance and think up a new strategy. When he moved, it was more cautiously, closing the distance between them while watching for her to move. She didn't. She advanced to meet him, deflecting his massive fists with carefully timed blocks. She even remembered to time her breathing with her movements, something Logan was always after her about. Then she threw a punch, flinging it from her hip with the force of a catapult. Her opponent stumbled backwards four steps, then dropped onto his butt, the wind knocked from his lungs.

Rogue eased up from her stance, a little disappointed that the match was already over. Before she had time to even think about another one, Logan had her by the back of the jacket and was matter-of-factly dragging her out of the bar. Rogue rolled her eyes and allowed herself to be dragged.

"Time to go," Logan announced. "We're pushin' our luck."

"One more?"

"On the bike, Stripes."

Rogue got on the bike.

* * *

Remy appeared at the given address at ten minutes to four. It was a large and elegant townhouse in one of Paris's more expensive neighborhoods, beautiful but otherwise unremarkable.

Inside, five business-suited men were waiting for him in a large and sunlit salon. One was the man who'd contacted him the night before, and it was this man who rose to shake his hand. "Good afternoon, my young friend. We're pleased to see you're so punctual. Would you care for a drink?"

"Bourbon, please." Being a red-blooded American, Gambit wasn't going to stoop to drinking European liquor.

"Well, now, _monsieur_," began another of the men while the drink was being fetched. "We're understandably a little curious to know what a thief of your obvious talents is doing so far from his home guild, whichever that may be."

"What any young t'ief a'talent and promise is doin' out in de big, bad world, sir. My name is Remy LeBeau, a'N'Awlins. I will be a Master T'ief."

The speaker nodded. He had a strong profile: square jaw, roman nose, large and intelligent blue eyes. His hair had faded to silver-gray and was retreating across his scalp, but the well-fitted suit still showed the musculature of a thief in active training. "Well, _M._ LeBeau, your confidence speaks well for you, but the title of Master Thief isn't generally something that can be earned by someone barely out of his teens. You're going to need decades more experience before you can compete at that level."

"I appreciate de counsel, but I believe I kin compete at any level I please. Or do all new-promoted T'ieves in Paris crack banks widout trippin' one solitary alarm?"

This merited a raised eyebrow. "You're cocky."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, _Guildmaster_," the other man corrected.

Remy nodded his head, a gesture reminiscent of a bow. "I beg y'pardon, Guildmaster."

Remy's guide placed a glass of bourbon in his hand. Remy raised it in salute, then took a swallow. Good stuff.

"I'm Romain Faury," the Guildmaster offered. "I knew your father when he was campaigning for _his_ Master's Mark. I'm pleased to see his son has all his talent, and perhaps even more ambition."

"Just tryin' t'prove what I can do."

"Have you seriously considered the kind of effort it will take to win you that honored position? There's hardly any point in starting your campaign so early. You need years upon years of practical experience to pull off the kinds of jobs a Master Thief is expected to achieve."

"I b'lieve I kin manage it."

"You're good, son," offered another of the men in the room. "But you're not nearly good enough, not yet. You have no standing reputation, no clients."

"Dat's what I'm out here t'get. I know it'll be a long haul. I'm ready for it."

"Ready to do nothing but work and excel for the next decade or so? Unless you do something really spectacular, like steal a nuclear weapon, as a shortcut."

"Don't give the boy ideas," Guildmaster Faury chastised him. "Remy, listen carefully. If you are truly determined to claim your Master's Mark, then I am interested in helping you, at least for your father's sake. Have you thought about choosing a sign yet?"

Remy shook his head. All Master Thieves had a unique sign, a mark that identified them and their work. His father's was a fleur-de-lys and a cartographer's compass. "Didn't think I had to until after I got my Mark."

"Technically, you don't, but starting to use a sign now will ensure you receive proper credit for your own jobs. Just something the guilds can look out for to keep track of you. It will mean you'll have to be more careful. You must never pull a job the same way twice, or the police will develop a model on you and begin to predict your actions. But if you are sufficiently skilled, such a pattern will help you to grow your reputation."

Gambit nodded. "I kin do dat."

"Where are you planning to head next? You can't earn a Master's Mark hanging around Paris."

"Florence. Got a lead I need t'follow up on."

"I'll contact Guildmaster Petrelli and tell him t'expect you."

Gambit drained the last of his drink and set the glass on a convenient table. Then he reached into his pocket for his cards. They were a shuffled mess, but he was quick with them, and it only took him a few seconds to locate the card he was looking for: the Ace of Spades, the Demon's Card. Out of another pocket, he pulled a fine-tipped permanent marker. He pulled off the cap with his teeth and drew a red circle inside the ace, then an X in the circle. Demon of the X-Men. "Tell him, if y'would, sir, t'expect dis." He handed over the card.

Guildmaster Faury examined the card, smiling. "This will be a good sign. Simple, distinctive, stylish, and just a shade macabre."

Remy nodded his head in acknowledgment as he pocketed the marker and the deck.

* * *

Author's Notes:

The author would like to apologize to the residents of Ketchican, Alaska, which is in fact a very nice city. At least, so she hears from the people who live there. But she couldn't resist paying homage to the X1 scene, which is still one of her favorites. ("Saved yer life." "No, you didn't." Hehehehehehe . . .)

The city of Paris is divided up into arrondissements, or neighborhoods. the 17th is rather a nice one. A _discotheque_ is a nightclub.

_Pardonnez: _Excuse me.

_Très bien: _very good.

_Mon frère_: my brother.

_Bien sur_: Of course.

_Je vous en prie _is a very formal way to say 'you're welcome'.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

Rogue woke up to find herself unconsciously trying to lick the inside of her mouth clean. It tasted coppery and acrid and disgusting.

She opened her eyes. The ground under them was red-brown, a cushion of decayed pine needles several inches deep. It was soft, and smelled nice, the clean scent a bizarre counterpoint to the tobacco and alcohol reek that permeated her clothes.

She moaned and rolled over to stare through the trees at the midmorning sky. _What_ had happened last night? Had she actually been cracking heads in a seedy fight club, or had it been some all-too-Freudian dream about how repressed she was? No, it had been real: the smell was enough to prove that. Oh, good grief. What had she been thinking? What would Scott say if he ever found out? To heck with Scott . . . what would _Kurt_ say?

At least she knew what Gambit would say. Gambit would think it was hilarious. He would have bet sky-high on her all night long, then challenged her to a fight just for the heck of it. Despite the nasty taste in her mouth, she couldn't help smiling. _Remy_. Even from halfway across the world, he could always make her feel better.

She sat up and combed pine needles out of her hair. Logan was still asleep, propped up against a nearby tree with his arms folded and his chin resting on his chest.

Leaving him to sleep, Rogue shot straight up into the air. She needed a bath, and there had to be a lake around here somewhere. It was Alaska, for cryin' out loud. Of course, she knew where the ocean was, but she didn't want her hair to be crusted with salt for the foreseeable future.

She found one a few miles inland, isolated and calm. A moose was standing in the shallow water, chewing on water plants. Rogue gave it a wide berth, diving instead into the deepest part of the lake. It was cold . . . dang cold . . . but not more than she could handle.

Passport and a change of clothes, Logan had said. Why hadn't she taken four seconds to steal a bottle of camping soap out of the X-Jet? She was getting more disgusting every day, unlike Logan, who seemed to absorb grime and wear it as a second skin. Rogue muttered darkly to herself as she stripped off her clothes and scrubbed them in the icy water as well as she could. Then she pulled them all back on, shot up into the air, and spun like an Olympic ice skater until she was reasonably dry.

When she got back to the bike, Logan was up and packing his minimal stuff back into the cargo space underneath the motorcycle's seat. "Ready to go?" he asked as she landed, her sneakers still squishing a little from the leftover water.

"Yeah." Rogue hesitated a second, then asked, "Am Ah in trouble?"

"What for?"

"Gettin' in a fistfight with a drunk Alaskan?"

Logan snorted. "What'm I gonna do . . . make a note of it in your student file?"

Unintentionally, Rogue cast her mind back to last night . . . to Logan's feral smile and the red-brown splatter of his opponents' blood across his bare chest. She looked at her shoes, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks. It wasn't embarrassment . . . it was shame, that she'd seen her respected teacher exposed in all the wildness and savagery he'd so carefully hidden from the other students. "Ah . . . Ah'm sorry if Ah got stupid. Ah dunno what Ah was thinkin'. Ah should've stayed outside."

Rogue didn't hear him cross the pine-strewn clearing, so when his hand appeared in her limited field of vision, she couldn't help jumping. But all he did was raise up her chin, with the side of his hand that was protected by the black leather of his biking glove. His blue eyes were kind again, and a little sad.

"Listen to me, Stripes. You're not out here as my backup, my sidekick, my student, or my responsibility. You're following your instincts. So the only person you're gonna get in trouble with is yourself. If that fight last night was a stupid idea, don't do it again. But you're not gonna get praise, blame, or judgment from me. I'm not the boss of you out here. You're a grown-up and a fighter. You make your own calls and deal with your own consequences. Got it?"

Rogue nodded. She blinked a few times, feeling as though her eyes were still adjusting to the light. Logan was changing before her eyes. Yesterday, despite having allowed her to run away from home, he'd still been her teacher, authority figure, older brother, boss. Now he looked more like . . . like a friend. It was weird. Weird, but not unwelcome. It struck her that being Logan's friend was a pretty rare privilege.

He withdrew his hand and chuckled. "But your fight stance was complete crap."

Rogue's mouth dropped open in indignation. "Was not!"

Logan swung onto the bike and kicked it to life, grinning. "Was so."

Smoldering, Rogue took her spot in the back seat and wrapped her arms around Logan's waist. "You're just jealous 'cause Ah got a better kick than you do."

"Party trick."

"Wait 'till I pop you one in the jaw and you won't be callin'it a 'party trick' anymore."

A wave of red-brown earth shot out from under the back tire as Logan veered his Harley back toward the highway.

* * *

Gambit didn't even bother to unpack once he got to Florence. Too much work to do.

Within three hours of his arrival, he was settled in an unfurnished apartment about two miles west of the University, lying on his stomach to work on his laptop since it was more comfortable than standing at the kitchen counter.

The computer was just one of the many purchases he'd made in France. He'd also bought himself a suitcase full of clothes—from all-blacks, for working, to a carefully-tailored suit so he wouldn't have to face his superiors again looking like a teenage carjacker. Then there was the forged French driver's license and a passport to match, which would let him move through the E.U. much more easily than his American documents. And to top it all off, he'd made the rounds of all the city's quietest dealers, picking up climbing gear, signal scramblers, miniature remote-controlled cameras, police scanners . . . all the tools of a professional thief. All his life, he'd borrowed gear like this, first from his father's collection and then from Magneto's. It felt good to have a stockpile of his own, even if he couldn't exactly write _Property of Remy LeBeau_ on any of it. It meant he was really in the big time now. He was invested.

All this gear was still packed in its cases, which were in turn packed in nondescript black suitcases waiting in the empty bedroom. It was only four in the afternoon: not time to play with his new toys yet. But when darkness fell . . . well, he'd heard rumors of a jeweler's just off the Piazza della Repubblica with some mafia connections and a very nice collection of high-end amethysts that his fence would just love (as soon as he found a good fence; he had a few recommendations from people he'd contacted in Paris, but he needed to check them out). For now, there was other work to be done.

He connected to the internet and checked on the various bank accounts he'd opened. All fine: the deposits he'd made before he'd left France had reached their destinations safely. He'd received an e-mail from the London lawyer he'd contacted about passing money to the Muir Center without legal entanglements . . . it looked like things were proceeding well on that front. Hopefully by the time he got the money to Moira, he'd also have something for her to spend it on.

He turned his attention to the nearby University and its science department. Its website was in Italian, which was similar enough to French and Spanish to be manageable but still a pain to slog through. Genetics, genetics. There wasn't a genetics department, as such, but there _was_ pharmacology. He pulled up the faculty list and scanned through their names and photographs.

There was no mention of a Robert Windsor. There was, however, one professor without a picture next to his biography: a Dr. Steven Shaffran.

Gambit checked the professor's class list. He'd been teaching last fall . . . online courses. He was not teaching this semester.

He grinned at the screen. "Hello, Sinister."

* * *

Rogue was pretty tired by the time they got to Japan.

She'd never been called upon to fly so far, carrying so much. The stretch across the International Dateline had been the worst. Crossing the entire ocean had taken her two days, flying and resting at intervals and getting lost over the open ocean three times in a row. Logan shrugged it off, as well as he could, considering that riding on her back for that long had to be extremely uncomfortable. But finally they were back on a landmass of significant size—Hokkaido, Logan called it. Rogue was beginning to wish she knew anything about Japan at all, since it looked like they were going to be here for a while.

Logan took charge again. Exhausted from the long and stressful flight, she fell asleep on the bike with her cheek resting on the back of his jacket as they went roaring across the Japanese countryside. She wasn't worried about falling off—she'd done it a dozen times already, and had gotten good at doing a few somersaults and zooming back to her seat without really emerging into consciousness.

She woke up when they finally stopped. Blinking, she looked around, trying to make her eyes focus through the hazy gray twilight. They were in a town, smaller than Bayville, in front of what looked like a repair garage. "Somethin' wrong with the bike?" she asked blearily.

"Bike doesn't go any farther," Logan told her. He shoved her gently with his elbow, and she moved so he could stand up. "I'm gonna arrange to leave it here, and we'll keep goin' on foot."

Rogue looked dubiously at the small garage, and at the signs in the window all written in incomprehensible squiggles. "Let's hope they speak English."

A young man came out of the office, wiping his hands on a rag. Logan approached him and bowed. "_Konnichiwa. Watashi no namae wa Rogan desu._"

Rogue moaned and flopped forward onto the bike's handlebars. It figured.

Logan and the young man conversed for a few minutes, both of them gesturing to the bike. A few American bills changed hands, along with what looked like one of Logan's milder death threats. Then they bowed again, and Logan came back. "Get your stuff."

Rogue dragged herself from the seat and obediently shouldered her backpack. "You sure about leaving the Harley here?" she asked. She didn't want Logan's pride and joy to be gutted and sold for parts. She also wanted to go back to sleep.

"Oh, yeah. I've got kind of a rep around here."

Rogue glanced at the mechanic, who was wheeling the bike into the dimly lit garage. "_He _didn't seem to recognize you."

"He's too young."

Without farther comment, Logan started walking. Rogue followed, her feet dragging in the dirt.

They only stayed on the road for a couple of miles before turning off it and heading uphill, into more coniferous forest. By now, it was decidedly dark. This didn't bother Logan, of course, but Rogue had to resist the temptation to hang onto the back of his jacket. Someday she was going to have to absorb herself some night vision.

"Logan?"

"Yeah?"

"There ain't anyone around, and even if there were, it's way past dark enough to be safe to fly. So how about we fly?"

"Thought you were tired of flyin'."

"Ah'm tired, period. Walkin', flyin', Ah don't care. Ah just wanna go to sleep, and flyin's a faster way to get wherever we're headed."

"Fast isn't the point. Where we're goin' . . . it's someplace you have to earn. No cheating on this one. We walk to show respect."

Rogue nodded, even though Logan couldn't see the gesture. That was an answer she could accept. "Logan?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we show respect tomorrow?"

Logan stopped walking, and she heard him chuckle. "Fine, Stripes. We'll call it a night."

* * *

Gambit was about ready to call it a night.

The university campus was quiet at four in the morning, just the way he liked it. In fact, he'd disabled the simplistic alarm system to be sure it stayed that way. Professor Shaffran's office was unhelpful. There were books and a computer in it, but no records: it looked to Remy like Sinister had decorated it for show, to draw attention away from the fact that he never showed his demonic face on campus.

So Gambit had headed down the hall to the department's administrative office and spent the early hours of the morning cracking open filing cabinets of personnel files. Sinister had a long record here: he'd been teaching in some form or another for over a decade. A lot of money had gone into his research.

Contact info. Three different addresses, two phone numbers, a fax number, two e-mails. Remy copied the paper and tucked the copy in his pocket before cleaning up the office.

He was about to make his customary discreet exit when a book on the coffee table beside the 'waiting' chairs caught his eye. They were pastel paperbacks with gloss-free covers: issues of a scientific journal. On the cover of the topmost one was the name Steven Shaffran.

Remy grabbed it and flipped it open to Shaffran's article. Thankfully, the journal was for international publication and was thus in English.

_Rewriting the Genome: Practical DNA Modification in Living Human Subjects through Use of _Homo Superior _Genetic Sequences, by Robert Windsor and Steven Shaffran_

That sounded promising. Gambit pocketed the book on his way out, mentally kicking himself for passing notes to Kurt during his entire last semester of biology. He remembered how Sinister _talked_ . . . his writing had to be a nightmare, especially for someone who spoke English as a second language. Well, there were always specialized dictionaries online. It would be worse than any biology homework he'd ever been assigned, but it was for Rogue, so he'd slog through it.

He walked back to his apartment and fell asleep on the floor, his face buried in the frustrating text. His last thought was a sense of smug gratitude that no one was going to be waking him up for before-breakfast Danger Room training.

* * *

At mid-afternoon of the next day, the forest abruptly stopped, leaving them on an open, grassy plateau surrounded by mountains. There was a light breeze blowing, easing the burn of the sun at this altitude. Rogue stretched and smiled; this high, unrestricted place felt like flying, and that made her feel safe and content.

Logan caught a glimpse of her expression and smiled. "Go fly a loop if you want. I know walkin' bothers you."

Rogue grinned and dropped her backpack, shooting straight up into the clear blue sky. She pushed upward against the gravity of the planet, feeling the cold, thin air burn her lungs while the sunshine blazed against her face and eyes. She hardly ever got to fly in broad daylight like this. It felt spectacular.

_Carol loved to fly, Rogue._

She wasn't sure if it was a blocked memory or just a long-forgotten one, but she could remember it now: the Professor, who knew them all, knew that Carol loved to fly. And while Rogue was airborne, the name didn't hurt her. If Carol loved to fly, then she would fly for Carol, and love it, too, for that stranger's sake.

She glanced down at the earth below. Logan was a dark brown dot in the pale, waving green grass. Across the mountain, still several miles off, was a cluster of red-roofed buildings.

Oh, good. Rogue was a city girl, and had been hoping that buildings would eventually be a part of her life again.

She dropped back to earth, letting herself hit the ground with the kind of force that would have rattled the mansion's windows. "Are we going that way?" she asked, pointing in the direction of the complex.

"Yep. That's it."

She scooped up her backpack and fell into step beside him as he picked up his regular pace again. "Am Ah allowed t'ask what it is? Kinda outta the way for another fight club."

Logan chuckled. The sight of open sky seemed to be improving his mood, too. "It's where I come to clear my head. A good place to think things out. I've got friends here."

Rogue nodded. She clamped her tongue between her teeth to keep from asking him the question that was fighting to get out: _What is it that you need to think out so badly you had to come to the other side of the world to do it?_ That was absolutely none of her business, and if she was curious, silence and patience would get her more information than prying would. She'd learned that from being with Remy.

It was funny to think how much she'd once hated him, when he'd been so like Logan the whole time. It was funny how little she suddenly understood Logan, when she knew Remy like her own soul.

They reached their destination after a couple of hours' more walking. The buildings were all low and long, with red tile roofs that flared at the corners. They were surrounded by beautiful landscaping: smooth stone paths, carefully tended trees, arrangements of stones that looked more like sculptures than just rocks. In the distance, Rogue could see broad fields of bright green plants. She could hear running water somewhere nearby.

As they approached the foremost and largest of the buildings, the front door slid open. A Japanese boy of about ten, dressed in a black robe and with only a dark fuzz across his scull to mark where his hair had been, scrambled out and bowed deeply to Logan. Logan bowed back, the gesture as natural and easy as shaking hands. Rogue hung back, embarrassed. She thought about bowing, too, but decided not to. It felt too much like she was making fun of something.

The two conversed for a moment in Japanese, then the boy scrambled back inside. Rogue pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. She'd always thought of monks—when she'd thought of them at all—as stately and dignified. But this skinny little kid was, in fact, just a skinny little kid.

They waited in silence for a few minutes, then another monk appeared in the doorway. This man was much older; there were laugh lines around his eyes, and the bones of his hands showed through his skin. But his face was unmarked by age spots. It was hard to say how old he was. But he was smiling.

Logan smiled, too. The two men bowed to one another, the bows deep and graceful. Rogue gave the gesture a shot, too, though she wasn't at all sure she was doing it right. It felt so _weird_.

"_Seiji-sensei_," said Logan.

"_Rogan-kun_," said the monk. "_Irrasshaimase_."

Logan took Rogue by the arm and drew her forward, launching into another string of incomprehensible Japanese chatter. The monk smiled at her, and descended the steps to offer her his hand. "Welcome to our home, Rogu-san. We are glad to offer hospitality to any friend of Rogan."

"Nice tuh meet yeh," Rogue answered, wincing as her drawl came out thicker than she'd expected. Her dialect sounded unbearable next to the soft, bubbling flow of the Japanese.

"Rogue, this is Seiji," Logan explained. "He's the head of the monastery, and a very good friend."

"You have never brought anyone with you when coming to visit us before," Seiji observed to Logan. "I trust you have allowed her to eat and sleep on the journey up the mountain?"

Logan shrugged. "A little."

Seiji sighed. "Come with me, Child. We will find you some food and a place to lie down."

"Oh, that's okay, Ah'm fine," said Rogue. At least, that was what she tried to say. She hadn't gotten past the 'Oh' when Logan kicked her discreetly in the shin. Taking this as his subtle way of telling her that refusal would be rude, she changed her response. "Thank you."

Seiji turned towards the building behind him and called out something. The ten-year-old scrambled back out again, started down the stairs, ran back to get his shoes, then finally arrived on the stone path, bowing and out of breath. Seiji spoke to him, then turned to Rogue. "Go with Daisuke. He will take care of you."

* * *

"We are glad to see you again," Seiji told Logan as the two of them walked slowly along the stone paths that criss-crossed the monastery complex. "It has been a very long time."

"Too long," Logan agreed. "I should've come back a long time ago. Has the roof of the novices' dormitory started leaking yet?"

Seiji laughed. "Yes, months ago. It managed to survive the winter, though. We survived a little spring rain."

"I'll take a look at it." Logan gained so much from the time he spent at the monastery that he felt guilty leaving without offering something in return. Over the years, he'd built or repaired just about every structure there, as well as working long hours in the gardens and the fields. It just made him feel better.

This whole place made him feel better. In the beauty and the isolation, he could steady himself, think out and even discuss his decisions instead of making them on the spur of the moment and going with his gut. Here things like anger and frustration, love and commitment, guilt and grief were all easier to bear. That was Buddhism . . . letting it not matter. Letting it be okay. Finding peace.

He knew he couldn't stay here forever. Much as he wanted to, he wasn't willing to just toss away all the people who needed him. He was as passionate as the monks were passionless: he loved tenaciously, fought with abandon, and protected those under his care until the bitter end. It was just who he was.

"Sensei, I was about to do an awful thing," he admitted. "It would have hurt a lot of the people I'm responsible for. And even now, out here . . . part of me still wishes I'd done it anyway."

Seiji nodded, acknowledging the confession without offering judgment. "I hope that you come to find the right course, and the courage to follow it."

Nothing further was said on the subject. They talked about ordinary, catching-up-on-the-news things: which of the monks was developing arthritis, which of the students were still at the Institute, how the winter had been in New York, how the fields looked for the upcoming summer, which of the families in the village had new children, how Scott was adjusting to his new responsibilities as field commander, how many of the pumps that supplied the monastery's water needed repairs.

Logan finally excused himself and went to go check on Rogue. The guest quarters that the monastery maintained were fairly small, but since Logan was about the only visitor they ever had, they'd been more than adequate. He found Rogue kneeling on the futon mattress somebody had laid out for her, half into and half tangled up in a pearl gray tunic. When she heard the door slide open, she shrieked and grabbed at the fabric. Logan tried not to choke on his laughter. "Havin' a little trouble, Stripes?"

"This ain't as easy as it looks," Rogue complained, blushing scarlet.

"Well, it looks pretty dang difficult. C'mere."

"No way!"

"Relax, Kid. I'm just gonna help. I'm not into high school girls."

_Just college girls_, some condemning voice at the back of his head pointed out as he helped Rogue to extricate herself from the sleeve she'd gotten twisted. He showed her how to wrap the jacket properly, and tied the sash for her. "You'll get the hang of it," He promised.

"Let's hope, 'cuz that was _way _too embarrassing to ever do again," Rogue grumbled, pulling her gloves back on. "So now that we made it here, what're we gonna do?"

"Think. Work. Rest. Fly. Everyone here's watched me get impaled with enough stuff to not be surprised by mutants anymore, so you don't have to hide anything. Fly if you want to. Make some friends. Learn some Japanese. Let one of the novices teach you how to meditate. Just keep in mind they _are_ monks, so don't go turnin' on the charm."

Rogue raised an eyebrow. "Have you _met_ me? Ah live in a combat school, not a charm school."

"Oh, and work on your katas. You need it."

"Right now what I need is somethin' to eat. I'm starved."

"Kitchen's down the hill. Just follow the path to the left."

"How do you say "Ah'm hungry" in Japanese?"

"_Onaka ga suki mashita_."

Rogue stared at him for a minute, then headed for the door. "How about Ah just go down there and look bewildered until somebody feeds me?" She slid the door closed after herself, leaving the room in warm red-brown darkness.

Logan unshouldered his backpack and opened it, digging to the very bottom for a bundle of folded clothes. They were like the ones Rogue was wearing, but worn soft with age and use. They'd once been brown, but had faded to tan. Logan stripped off his travel-soiled western clothes and put on the pants and jacket, tying both with all the expertise of long practice. Then he went outside and started walking on his own.

He'd made it here. And in all the long journey, he'd kept his mind strictly focused on the road ahead, never letting himself look back. But now that he was safely hidden in the mountains of Japan, he could think in safety. So he thought. Indulged.

For the first time in days, he let himself think about Jean.

In the months since New Orleans, he'd almost come to hate her for what she'd done to him. Anger was so much easier to handle. Every time she passed too near him, in a Danger Room session or while making dinner, and the sweet, clean scent of her had worked its way into his brain . . . there had been a flare of reckless _wanting_, just to reach out and touch her, or to breathe her name and catch her eye. Then the thrill of it was replaced by shame and humiliation, then rage—first at himself, and then at Jean. It wasn't her fault, but it was so much easier to direct the fury outwards.

His friend. His spunky little redheaded friend who'd sat with him and passed him tools while he worked on the Professor's car, first by hand and then by shaky telekinesis as the years passed and she grew stronger. How could he have let this happen?

_It was Jean and Scott's freshman year of high school. They were both still too young to drive, so Storm had chauffeur duty. Logan traded off with her, when he was around. He'd been less tied to the mansion then. _

_Jean came sprinting into the house, took a flying leap at the sofa, and landed on her back with a squeal and a giggle. "Duncan Matthews asked me out!" she shrieked, almost thrashing with excitement. "Aaaaaaah!"_

_Professor Xavier raised an eyebrow. "Who is this boy?"_

"_He's a sophomore, on the football team. He's really good. He has blond hair and blue eyes and he's _so_ gorgeous."_

"_Dyes his hair," Scott announced, dropping his bag on the floor and leaning against the wall rather than sitting down. The ever-present sunglasses made it hard to read his expression sometimes, but the set of his mouth was decidedly somewhere between mild annoyance and outright sulking._

"_He does _not_," Jean retorted. _

"_His eyebrows are _brown_. There's no way that's natural."_

"_Does he treat you with respect?" Xavier asked her, his tone serious._

_Jean composed herself and sat up, combing back the long red hair that had scattered all over her face in her jump. "Yes, Professor. He's very nice to me."_

"_He'd better be," Logan growled. He extended the claws of his right hand. "'Cause if not, I've got a great recipe for high-school-jock sushi."_

"_He's not a jock. He's really smart. A bunch of his friends are going laser-tagging on Friday night, and he asked me to go with him."_

"_Only three days to decide what to wear," Scott deadpanned. "Better get started now."_

_Jean glared at him. "Just for that, Smartmouth, you have to help me pick. Come on. Upstairs. March." She jumped up and grabbed him by the shoulders. _

"_Hey! I'm not going to . . . Professor!"_

_The Professor held up his hands, indicating _You're on your own; sorry.

_Storm entered the living room as the two students left it, gracefully taking the chair across from Xavier's. "I assume you've heard Jean's big news."_

"_I think the whole neighborhood heard Jean's big news," Logan muttered, retracting his claws and rubbing away the itch of his healing wounds. "Who gave her permission to go getting herself asked out on dates? She's only fifteen."_

"_Where I come from, girls are sometimes married by Jean's age," Storm pointed out. "I think she will be all right going on _one_ date."_

_Xavier shook his head, smiling. "Poor Scott."_

"_Not exactly taking it well, is he?" asked Logan, smiling too._

"_They are like brother and sister," Storm insisted. "It is natural that he would feel protective of her."_

"_I think Jean thinks they're like brother and sister. I think Scott had other ideas."_

"_Then he should have spoken up first," Storm decided, with all the cruel finality of a woman._

_Xavier sighed. "I had hoped Scott would say something. It would have saved us all so much trouble. For Jean to be in a relationship with someone outside the Institute could become . . . complicated."_

_Logan laughed aloud. "Chuck, how about you stick to savin' the world, and let Red handle the matchmaking?"_

"_Am I to take it you approve of this boy, Logan?" Storm asked._

"_Course not. She can do better than some small-town football player hick. But she'll figure that out. She's smart."_

Xavier, in his quiet way, had spent years hoping that Scott and Jean would settle down to one another. He was right: they had, and the relationship was convenient and uncomplicated. They were the leaders of the students that came after them, a perfectly matched pair. Scott was quiet, Jean was outspoken; Scott was strict, Jean was flexible; Scott was serious, Jean was playful. They'd been raised for each other.

But there was so much more to Jean than what Scott brought out in her. She was fierce, loyal, proud, gutsy, practical, uncompromising. She was like Logan . . . without untold decades of emotional scars to make her cynical and bitter. If Scott hadn't been part of the equation . . . in a few years, when she'd grown closer to Logan's apparent age . . .

No. If not Scott, it would have been someone else. Jean was too beautiful and too vibrant to spend her youth waiting around for him. And it was useless to rule out Scott. He was there, more an X-Man than Logan would ever be. He hadn't come here to think out a way to steal Jean from Scott, but a way to let her go. If he wanted to remain a part of her life . . . or of Storm's, or Rogue's, or any of his students and friends . . . then he had to get this problem under control. That's what it was . . . just a problem. Like his temper. Something to be conquered and dismissed.

He found an open, flat space of grass and took a deep breath, drawing himself up into neutral stance. He'd start with the shotokan katas, and work through every movement sequence he knew until he was calm enough to go home. It could take months, but that was all right . . . with his unwelcome agelessness, he had all the time in the world.

* * *

Author's Confessions . . . um, Notes . . .

I speak almost no Italian or Japanese, which is a tragedy, I know, but I'm muddling through as best I can. If any of you folks spot any errors in my usage or translations, _please_ let me know so I can tidy things up! I don't want the realism to suffer just because I foolishly limited myself to French. Kudos and gratitude already to pennylane87 for the virtual tour of Florence.

So here's what I learned about Japanese in researching and writing this chapter:

At the garage, Logan presents himself ("Hello, my name is Logan" . . . pretty basic, but what do you want?). Because the L sound doesn't exist in Japanese, his name is effectively going to be Rogan until they leave Japan. And Rogue's name changes to _Rogu_ so the speaker doesn't have to put a glottal stop between her name and a suffix. It just sounds better.

_Irrasshaimase _is "welcome."

Logan addresses Seiji with the suffix –sensei because Seiji is a teacher and authority figure. Seiji addresses Logan with –kun because Logan is a man of lower status. Seiji uses –san for Rogue as common politeness to a stranger.

Man, I learn all kinds'a things writing these fics . . .

Oh, _shotokan_ is the Okinawan martial art I used to study, and a _kata _is a movement sequence you learn and perform to advance belt levels.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

Rogue had been wandering the complex for an hour when she found the novices again. There were about a dozen of them, all with identical black robes and shaved heads, sitting motionless in a square of close-trimmed grass surrounded by stone statues. Rogue lifted off the ground and glided towards them, wanting to join in without disturbing anybody.

One of the little monks—her guide from earlier—peeked open one eye as she landed cross-legged next to him. He grinned at her, and she grinned back. "Daisuke?" she whispered hesitantly, unsure if she was saying his name right.

The boy nodded, then put one hand across his mouth. Rogue copied the gesture, obediently shutting up.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Logan had come here to think; she'd come here to work.

_All right, Carol. If I absorbed you, then you're in here someplace. Time to come out and talk._

She let herself sink into the back of her mind, the quiet, isolated corner where her absorbed personalities were tucked away. Almost instantly, a warm rush of contentment went shooting through her veins. The strongest personality was Gambit's—she could feel his love, his recklessness, his pride, his smugness wrapping around her like a blanket. _Remy. I miss you so much, you stupid Cajun. You'd better be safe, wherever you are._

Reluctantly, she tried to push him away. The whole exercise was very abstract without Professor Xavier or Jean to pull her onto the astral plane, where thoughts had physical form. She really only had her own feelings and thoughts to tell her if she was moving in the right direction. It was hard to tell how much she was imagining.

Her brain felt . . . heavy, sluggish, angry, frustrated. Blob. Now fierce, resentful, analytical. Mystique. Now overwhelmed, determined, content, in love: that had to be Scott. Man, there was a whole football team in here. Filled with numbers, easily distracted, comfortably superficial: that one was Kitty. Then—eew, hairy, snarly, and hormonal Sabertooth. She shoved her way past Magneto as well, avoiding his conviction and sorrow to escape the high metallic humming in her ears. Magneto could be dangerously addicting. She tumbled into Storm, all balance and serenity and deep affection, and rested there for a while.

"Stripes?"

Rogue's eyes flew open. It was dark. Logan's hand was on her shoulder, but there was no one else in sight.

"It's dang late, kid. You goin' to bed anytime soon?"

"Uh . . . yeah." Rogue had to blink a few times as she tried to remember where she was, and who. Then she accepted Logan's hand and stumbled towards the guests' quarters.

* * *

Gambit was making a list of things in Sinister's article that he understood, rephrased. One of his teachers had suggested it as a good note-taking strategy for unreasonably advanced texts. Sighing, he read over what he had so far.

'_Subject A' is Rogue._

_Rogue's DNA rewrites itself when she absorbs somebody._

_Kind of like a virus, that attacks cells and reprograms them to print more virus DNA._

_So when a power gets absorbed, the new DNA sequence spreads almost instantly through her whole body, but then her immune system fights it off. That's why the powers fade. _

_We don't get _how_ the DNA re-codes, or why the copying process leaves the copy-ee with a three-hour headache, or why she can absorb memories and personalities. _

_When she absorbed her flying, the virus was so powerful it overwhelmed her defense system. (So nightmares, memory loss, inability to access new powers . . . but Sinister didn't know about any of that.) By the time stuff got back on-line, the new DNA sequence just _was_ hers. There wasn't any of the old code left. _

_Sinister wanted to copy this process to re-write the DNA of people with genetic disorders, like sickle cell anemia. And make a truckload of money off it. _

_So the problem isn't the temporary change . . . they can do that even without Rogue's blood. The tricky part is making it stick. _

_So . . . could they use Rogue's power to rewrite her DNA to a code that wouldn't absorb at all? _

Gambit sighed and rolled over, away from the laptop. Too much science for one day. It was time to put this down and pass it on to Moira, as soon as he could justify returning to Scotland. He wanted to have more to bring with him first.

He closed the laptop and headed for his bags of gear. Time to work.

* * *

Moira came to breakfast with her hair in a towel again. Typical absent-minded professor behavior.

To her surprise, nobody was in the kitchen. The television was on in the living room, so she followed the noise to find Betsy, Piotr, and Sean all seated on the sofa squinting at their small and scratchy screen.

". . . in addition to the crippling explosions, we've received word that the main safe was cracked open and emptied, which amounted to several hundred thousand pounds' worth of currency, government bonds, and precious stones. Now, in the cleanup, Italian officials have found records tying this corporation to a number of the city's major crime families, so in addition to investigating this terrorist attack, and the theft, the authorities must also look into some obviously illegal dealings."

"Gambit's handiwork," Piotr announced, trying not to laugh.

"Are you sure?" Moira asked, sitting on the sofa arm.

"Oh, yes. Look, they'll show it again in a minute."

The picture shifted to a helicopter shot of the office complex that had been attacked. Strips of grass were still on fire across the lawn, but they weren't random: they formed a spade, like the symbol on playing cards, around an encircled X.

"That is Gambit's style," Piotr explained. "Spades are his insignia, his favorite suit. It is the sort of job he likes, too. He always said that busting illegal operations was more fun than legitimate ones."

"And he likes gems?" Betsy asked.

"Oh, yes."

"I can't believe Charles condones this kind of behavior," Moira murmured, shaking her head in astonishment. The phone rang, and she picked it up without looking at it. "Hello?"

The call was brief and to-the-point: rare for conversations with lawyers. Moira hung up and turned to the others. "Has anybody ever heard of the International Foundation for Genetic Research?"

"The whom?" asked Sean.

"They want to give us a quarter of a million dollars."

Piotr gave up his struggle and cracked up laughing.

* * *

Resentful and uncontrolled . . . Evan. Eager, silly, and vivacious . . . Bobby. Bloodthirsty and frustrated . . . Julian. Conflicted, fierce, and tender . . . Logan. Confident and compassionate . . . Jean. Still no Carol.

Rogue sighed and opened her eyes, wondering what day it was. Time blurred at the monastery, leaving the rest of the outside world as no more than an indistinct haze. She was fairly sure it had been at least a week since they'd arrived, but beyond that . . .

It took some concentration for her to remember what her bedroom looked like, or the garage, or the Danger Room, or the pool. Could she be forgetting already? Hadn't it only been a week? Or so?

She snorted as she drifted off the ground and let her legs drop down underneath her. Meditation was exhausting. Work was better.

She jogged down the hill to the fields, where many of the monks were hard at work pulling up weeds from around the vegetables. Some of them looked up and smiled at her as she picked up an extra hoe and set to work. Since they'd arrived, she'd learned some names, could say _Hello_ and _Thank you_, and had picked up a lot about gardening. Life was astonishingly, breathtakingly simple in some ways. It was such a relief. She was starting to understand what made Logan come here: everything was slow and clear. She felt like she'd been watching her life on fast-forward, and somebody had finally grabbed the remote and hit 'pause.' She was finally getting a chance to catch her breath.

Monk Seiji stepped across a couple of rows to work next to her. His voice was gentle, even as the blade of his hoe dug into the soil with forceful efficiency. "Are you well, Rogu-chan?"

Rogue smiled at him. "_Hai, Seiji-sensei_. Ah'm feelin' fine."

"I see you in meditation for so many hours of every day, child. I hope that you are finding what you seek."

Rogue snorted and dug her hoe with vicious force into a stubborn clod of dirt. As she bowed to pick up the exposed weeds, she admitted, "Ah don't think Ah'm makin' any progress."

"In what?"

"In . . ." Frustrated, Rogue leaned on her hoe as she tried to articulate her very complicated problems. "Y'know how Ah kin fly?"

"I had noticed it, yes. Please do not let me detract from the satisfaction of your work."

Rogue grinned, comparing how Logan would have put the request for her to keep digging while she talked. She swung the hoe again and continued, "Well, that power's not really mine. Ah took it from somebody. 'Cuz that's _my_ power: Ah steal energy from people Ah touch."

"Here, we believe that stealing is wrong."

"Yeah, we believe that where Ah come from, too. Well, most of us. And if Ah didn't believe it before Ah got my powers, Ah sure do now. This thing's hurt so many people . . . nearly killed a couple. One in particular. And unless Ah'm careful every day of my life, it'll happen again." She chopped a weed in half with a snarl of anger. "Ah just wish Ah could make it stop."

"Why can't you?"

"It doesn't work like that. It's involuntary. Ah could sooner make my heart stop beatin'."

Seiji looked at her for a long moment, smiling. Then he took hold of her hoe and set it aside before sitting cross-legged in the freshly turned dirt. Rogue sat down next to him.

"Do you know how to take a pulse?"

"Yeah. We learned at the Institute."

Seiji offered her his thin wrist. "Can you find mine?"

Rogue pressed her index and middle fingers into the spot below his thumb where an artery throbbed. "Found it."

"Hold it for a minute." He closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. Rogue felt his heart rate drop in response. Then drop farther. Then farther. The beats were now so far apart that Rogue found herself holding her breath between each one, getting dizzy every time. She frantically readjusted her fingers, thinking that she must have lost the artery. No . . . there was nothing. His pulse was gone.

Rogue was just opening her mouth to scream when the pulse throbbed back to life and Seiji opened his eyes. He was smiling.

Rogue let out her screaming-breath in a shaky sigh of relief. "How . . . how did you _do_ that?"

"The same way one does anything of worth in this world: patience and understanding."

Rogue started to laugh. "That was incredible!"

"Our bodies are much more linked to our minds than most Western thinkers choose to believe. Your body is not a prison; it is an extension of yourself. It can be anything you choose to make it."

"Can you teach me?"

"That depends. Can you learn?"

Rogue grinned. "T'get control of my powers, Seiji-sensei, Ah'll be a 4.0 student for the rest of my life."

* * *

Gambit smiled to himself as he approached the last address he'd stolen from the university's files. He'd learned something at an institution of higher education after all. Wouldn't the Professor be proud.

The first two addresses had been dead ends: an empty apartment and a little-bit-of-everything store that people used like a P.O. Box. This one promised to be more helpful. It was, at least, a laboratory.

It was an independent, stand-alone building, not rented space in a complex, and it was obviously much more recently built than most of the buildings around it. Even out here in the suburbs of the city, the architecture tended to be rather classical-revival style, all stone and scrollwork. This was a square, blunt, bland modern building, innocuous and, to all appearances, deserted.

Gambit started with the front door. It was locked, but the lock was uninteresting. He circled the building, just to be thorough, then let himself in.

No security cameras were visible in the entryway. There was, however, a security control box, which Gambit cracked open and carefully disabled. It was more to test out his new electrical gear than because he really thought anyone was monitoring the security here; Sinister had died more than three months ago, and there was no indication that anyone had been here in at least that long. But it didn't hurt to be cautious. Sinister had been overconfident, yes, but that didn't necessarily mean he'd been stupid.

When the alarm system was offline, Remy proceeded into the main lab space. It was less than impressive; even the lab underneath Bayville had boasted more equipment. A few computers, some glassware, a handful of Bunsen burners, a refrigerator, a centrifuge . . . Bayville High's science lab was, in some ways, more interesting.

"Oh, no, you don't, _mon ami,_" Gambit muttered, leafing through a folder of papers that had been left on a worktable. "I don't care if you _are_ dead. You ain't gettin' away dis easily."

This was going to be a lot of work. He was going to have to go through every scrap of paper and computer file, looking for another lead. If Sinister had worked here, then he must have left some connection to his _real_ lair. He must have.

His eyes lost focus for a second as he considered the price of failure . . . going home empty-handed to Rogue. She'd never blame him for it, but he would . . . knowing there'd been a chance to help her, and he'd blown it. He wouldn't endure that, and no two-bit science freak like Sinister could make him.

He gripped the edge of the table for a minute, gritting his teeth and reaffirming his determination. His eyes were locked on the floor, seeming to stare through it, back across the world to New York, to home.

The floor was peculiarly warm.

Not so anyone would notice, of course. But Gambit could see the temperature in the infrared spectrum of his vision, and the color was decidedly brighter than the ground had been outside. In June, the ground was still supposed to be relatively cool . . . the air above it warmed up much faster with the changing seasons. So the most logical reason for the earth below this building to be warm would be that it wasn't earth at all. There was air down there. Another level.

"Ha!" Gambit jumped once, slamming his heels into the tiles in triumph as though Sinister were buried somewhere in the building's foundations. "I gotcha now, you pointy-toothed slimewad. You gonna rue de day you tried double-crossin' Remy LeBeau."

Then he set about finding a way downstairs.

* * *

_Schwing. Thud._

"Your Rogu-san seems to be growing more determined by the day, my friend."

"Yeah, she's about as stubborn as they make 'em." _Shwing. Thud._

"I am tempted to think she gets that from you." _Thunk._

"Nah, she was plenty hard-headed when she showed up. Can't guarantee I haven't made her worse, though." _Schwing. Thud. Thunk._

Logan was cutting wood in the company of another of the older monks, one of the diminishing number that remembered when he'd first started coming here. Chikao was no longer the novice he had been back in those days, but he could still swing an axe. Of course, the steel axe head had no chance of keeping up with Logan's claws, but this wasn't a race. They were both contributing, at their own paces.

Logan set up another log on the chopping block, lined his claws up, and then slammed them down through the wood. _Schwing._ The four severed pieces tumbled to the ground. _Thud._ He bent down to collect them and toss them on the growing lumber pile, then stood up to stretch his back and look across the open hillside to where Rogue sat with Master Seiji. Their heads were just visible over the tall grasses. Rogue's unruly hair was blowing across her face, but she made no move to brush it away.

Logan sighed. "I just hope she isn't setting herself up for another letdown. She's had more than enough of those."

"She is a brave girl," Chikao assured him. "She knows that the sting of disappointment is easier to bear than the shame of never having tried."

Logan chuckled. "Maybe not. I don't think she's ever borne the shame of never having tried."

* * *

Up on the hill, Rogue was too focused on her breathing to worry about the hair teasing across her face. She couldn't let it distract her, not when there was so much else to focus on. She had to listen to the rhythms of her body—her heartbeat, her breathing, even her stomach as it digested the rice and vegetables she'd eaten for breakfast. Somewhere in there was the rhythm of her powers. If she could hear it, she could alter it.

At least, that was one theory.

Seiji had freely admitted to her that he didn't know the first thing about genetic mutation—which was fine, because no one else really did, either. But his understanding of the human body was different from anything she'd ever heard before, in biology class or from Professor Xavier or from Hank. He'd spoken of it as a vessel, as a pattern, as an idea, as a dream, as a balance, and as a star, but never once as the system of organs and chemicals she knew it to be.

Then again, who was to say that Hank was right and Seiji was wrong? Hank had never managed to suppress her powers—perhaps he had been seeing matters wrong from the beginning. Maybe one had to start by thinking of everything in a new way.

Okay. She was a series of rhythms. She was a heartbeat and a breathing and a patter of thoughts, and that was all.

She was jolted out of her meditation by a swift, fierce surge of energy. Seiji had tapped the back of her bare right hand with his middle finger. She gasped and jumped, jerking her hand back out of his reach.

"Be still," Seiji ordered. "Listen to your power. You will never be able to direct that which you do not understand."

Rogue sighed, trying to slow her racing heart. "This is so freakin' frustrating," she snarled. "Ah really tried that time!"

"If solving this problem were a matter of simple desire, you would have mastered it long ago," Seiji told her, his tone gently chastising. "Let go of your desire. It is only hindering you. Learn now, want later, and perhaps you will find that you don't need to want at all."

Rogue's resigned snort sent one of her stripes flying off her face, though it fell back exactly where it had been before. "_Hai, sensei_." She replaced her hand on her knee and closed her eyes again.

Just when she'd managed to steady herself back into a deep meditation, the tap came again. She gasped and tensed as his energy shot through her in one hot, glowing wave, but she didn't move her hand or open her eyes.

"Better," said Seiji.

Rogue began to suspect that they were going to do this all morning. She felt herself wanting to go crazy with frustration and impatience, but she forced herself instead to settle in with a sigh of resignation. If she weren't doing this, she would be washing clothes or helping in the gardens . . . when you spent long enough doing monotonous things, the monotony became more relaxing than frustrating. She was sitting on a mountain in Japan on a cool, breezy summer's day, breathing deeply. It was better than being locked in a science lab and endlessly experimented on while someone tried to extract a cure from her genetic sequence. And it was sure as heck better than sitting at home, trying to give Jean and Scott a wide berth and feeling sorry for herself.

She lost count of the times he tapped her, and tried not to think about how many more times he was going to do it. Then, during a stretch of time when she wasn't particularly thinking about it, the deep, ponderous ringing of the bell sounded across the mountaintop. Time to eat.

"Tell me what you learned," Seiji ordered as they stood up and started down the mountain.

He asked this after every time they practiced, so Rogue was ready for the question. "Ah learned that my heart only speeds up when Ah absorb 'cause Ah get so scared. It's not part of my mutation; it's just how Ah react."

"Very good."

Rogue grinned at the praise. Then, because the ground was sloped so steeply under her feet, she let herself jog a few steps, then run, then glide over the grass with the soft ends of it tickling her face and outstretched hands.

Logan had sheathed his claws and stacked up the last of the wood, and was picking up his jacket when Rogue landed on the woodchip-strewn ground. "Have fun?" he asked her, sliding his arms into the tunic sleeves and tying the garment around him.

"Not as much as you did, looks like," said Rogue, eyeing the new gauges in the chopping block. "Maybe we should trade for the afternoon. Ah'll smash up wood and you kin get zapped."

Logan chuckled. "Yeah, 'cuz _me_ meditating is gonna do _you_ a world of good."

"Could give it a shot."

Logan took a casual swipe at her head. Rogue ducked and came back with a counterpunch to his ribs. Logan twisted away from her strike and captured her fist, jerking her off her balance with one hand and tousling her unruly hair with the other. Rogue laughed and squirmed until he let her go.

She pulled back and tried unsuccessfully to comb the tangles out of her hair. "Soon as Ah get my powers under control, Ah'm _so_ payin' you back for that."

"Big talk, little girl."

"Oh, just you watch me."

"She is a spirited one," Seiji observed, smiling, as he struggled down the last few feet to the lumber yard. "Defiant. _Azami._"

"_Azami_?" Rogue repeated, turning to Logan for a translation.

Logan was grinning. "It means 'thistle'. He's sayin' you have an attitude."

"What, like Ah've got prickles or somethin'?"

"Something like that. Come on and eat."

Rogue turned back to make sure Seiji was coming with them as Logan and Chikao headed toward the kitchen. She was just in time to see him stumble, and barely in time to catch him.

"Sensei! Are you okay?"

Within seconds, Logan and Chikao were at hand to help her. The conversation switched immediately to Japanese, too fast for Rogue to even begin to follow. She scrambled out of the way, lest her bare hands complicate things further.

"He's okay," Logan reassured her. "Just tired. You took a lot out of him."

Rogue stared at the monk's pale, drawn face in dismay. "Ah'm so sorry! Ah didn't mean to!"

"I am choosing to help you, _Azami-chan_," Seiji insisted calmly. "I am prepared to accept the results, for good or ill."

"That's very noble, sensei, but maybe you should trade off Rogue-zapping duty for a while," Logan deadpanned. "Come on, you need to sit down and have a drink of water."

"Ah'm so sorry," Rogue repeated, her fingers cold with mortification and shock.

"Let it go, Stripes," Logan ordered. "Guilt-tripping yourself isn't going to help anybody. Not you, not him, not me. Just let it go and focus on your job."

* * *

_Focus on the job. No distractions. You've got all night here._

Which was good, because getting past this motion detector was going to take a while.

He'd found the elevator down to the basement: a disguised door in the back of a closet. The elevator itself was no trouble beyond a little rewiring. The problem was the hallway after the elevator.

The motion detector was on an independent circuit, battery-operated, and it was too far away to reach without triggering. There was no way of knowing what it would set off: an alarm, a booby trap, a lockdown.

So there was nothing to do but get down this hallway to where the thing was wired and disable it. And there was no way to do that except to walk down the hall. Very, very slowly.

Good thing he had all night.

Remy took a deep breath and went still. He was out of the stupid thing's range, but since he had no safe way of knowing exactly where it could see, he was just going to have to start from here. Scarcely daring to breathe, he eased his foot forward.

They should really do this in the Danger Room sometime. Good training. Good workout. And it would be nice to do something at which he was the best for once. It took a lot of practice to get good at this.

He let his weight shift onto his extended foot. Rogue would probably be better at it than he was. She could just hang in the air, advancing without moving, able to stay up effortlessly as long as she could stay awake. Sometimes it was mildly annoying to be involved with someone who could bust through the stratosphere. Plus, she could beat him at arm wrestling, which was always embarrassing.

"_Doucement_," he reminded himself, inching his left foot up to meet his right. What he wouldn't give right now to have Kurt for backup. This whole process would take several fewer hours with the Fuzzy to just pop him to the other end of the hall. Would Kurt involve himself with breaking and entering in order to help Rogue? Yeah. Kurt was a sport, and he'd move earth and sky to be a good brother. And he was always up for a little bit of trouble. Kurt was fun like that.

Forward again. He'd advanced one foot in five minutes. If this hallway was thirty feet long . . . two and a half hours. Give or take. He should have brought an iPod or something. Nah, unprofessional. It would have been nice, though.

So where would Rogue and Logan have gone? His first thought was Canada—it was Logan's home turf, and it was big enough to stay lost in forever. But the world was huge. They could be anywhere . . . haggling at a souk in Egypt, trekking across Mongolia, settled onto some sparsely inhabited Polynesian island. This last idea brought up the image of Rogue in a bikini, which kept him entertained through the next few steps. (It was primarily for daydreams like this that he was pleased Jean couldn't read his mind. He'd seen her smack Bobby for no apparent reason too many times to not appreciate just how lucky he was.)

Would she come home before he'd accomplished his goals? What was he going to do if she didn't? Well, he'd tracked down a dead man's hidden laboratory on the other side of the world . . . two very visible super-powered people couldn't be all that hard to find. Logan had probably left a broad trail of bloody noses leading away from the mansion that any idiot could follow.

Half an hour gone now. Two more hours to go. No reaction from that cursed motion detector. Good thing he'd always been a fan of late nights.

* * *

"A little late, isn't it?" Scott inquired, striding up the walkway to the Cerebro control console. "Not that it's any of my business, I guess."

Jean turned in her chair, the helmet still settled around her head. There was a little V of worry and frustration between her eyebrows. "He's locked me out," she moaned.

"Who has?" Scott took a seat on the computer console and folded his arms.

"The Professor. He's completely locked me out of Logan's signal, and Rogue's too." She took off the helmet and shoved it back into its cradle on the desk.

"Well, why would he do a crazy thing like that? Could it be that he thought you'd sneak down here in the middle of the night and try to find them whether they want to be found or not? He's so paranoid."

"Shut up," Jean ordered sulkily.

"Seriously, Jean, you need to let this go. Logan and Rogue can take care of themselves, and I'm sure the Professor's keeping an eye on them." He took her by the shoulders, then scrubbed his hands up and down her arms to help her calm down. "Logan used to leave all the time. He still does, occasionally. This is _normal_ for him, remember?"

"But _Rogue_?"

"I'm worried about her, too, but she _is_ eighteen. And she can pound nails with her bare hands."

"I could understand her going after _Gambit_. I might even have helped her sneak out, if she'd asked me. But why would she go with Logan? And why would Logan let her?"

"I don't really think that's our question right now," Scott told her gently. "Our question is: are you this freaked out about them because you're worried, or because you're jealous?"

Jean shoved him off her, her mouth falling open in indignation. "_Jealous_?"

"Yeah. I mean, you've been Logan's favorite for years. You two are tight. It stands to reason that if he needed some company on his random trip to nowhere, he should've asked you. But you had Hank's research to work on, and Rogue didn't have anything to do over the summer but mope about Gambit. It's probably better for everybody that she went instead of you."

"That's not it, Scott. _Really_. I know Logan wanders off when he wants to, but . . . don't take this the wrong way, but you don't get it because you're a boy."

Scott raised an eyebrow over the rim of his sunglasses.

"You don't really see how Logan treats us X-Girls. He's protective of us. It's like . . . like he'd jump in front of a bus for any of us. I mean, he'd do it for the boys, too, but he'd take a second to think about it first. With me, or Rogue, or Kitty, or Storm, he'd be in front of that bus before he even knew what was going on. He can't _not_ protect us. It's hard-wired into his brain. So what was going on in his brain when he let Rogue get on that motorcycle?"

"I don't know. Maybe he thought that bringing her along _was_ the best way to protect her. You saw how withdrawn she was getting."

Jean hung her head, embarrassed. "I . . . didn't, actually. I was too worried about how withdrawn _Logan_ was getting to even notice Rogue. And it's not like she's ever wanted my help before. I guess I've gotten so used to her telling me to mind my own business that I don't even try anymore."

"That's understandable," Scott acknowledged. "She's a hard person to deal with when she wants to be." Although Rogue was one of his closest friends, he did have to acknowledge that she could be a sulky, volatile pain when the mood struck her, and that she and Jean were probably never going to be close. "But, you know, Logan's just the same. Wherever they went, they're both being hard to deal with together, and hopefully they'll get it out of their systems and come home. That's how Logan has always worked before. Professor X isn't worried, so you shouldn't be, either."

Jean sighed. "Professor X didn't have Logan tell him that 'this isn't your fault,' in that way that means it is, but he wishes it wasn't."

Scott stared at her. "Okay, now I _know_ you need to go to bed. I know for a fact that if you blew up the sun, it would never occur to Logan to think it was your fault."

"You didn't hear him, Scott. It was awful."

"Everything's awful in the middle of the night. That's why we talk about these things in the morning. Come on, bed. Field commander's orders."

Jean groaned as she shoved herself out of her chair. "Yes, _sir_."

* * *

Author's Notes:

In Japanese, Rogue's suffix has changed from –san to –chan because she and Seiji are now friends. –chan is a familiar diminutive, attached to the names of girls and young children.

In browsing for character names, I ran across the name _Azami_, which apparently can mean both 'thistle' and 'defiant.' And I decided it had to be Rogue's name. _Rogan _and _Rogu_ were going to lead to confusion anyway.

In French, _mon ami_ is 'my friend' and _doucement_ is 'slowly' or 'gently' or 'carefully.'


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

Rogue slipped her shoes off and slid open the door to the guest quarters. Logan was sprawled on his mattress, but she could tell from his breathing that he wasn't actually asleep yet. That meant it was safe to make noise at close range; everyone at the Institute knew that if you needed to wake up the Wolverine, you did it from at least ten feet away. "Logan?"

Logan rolled over, stared at her for a minute, then sat up. "What's up, Aza-chan?"

Rogue sat down cross-legged on her own mattress. "Ah been thinkin'."

"Yeah, I was wondering what you've been doing on that mountain all day."

Rogue sighed. One of her stripes fell into her face, and she combed it back absently. "What I've been doin' up there is suckin' the brains outta good men who don't deserve to be hurt like that. Ah haven't absorbed ordinary humans in a long time—Ah kinda forgot how little energy they have."

"Somebody get hurt?" Logan asked, his voice heavy with concern. Rogue saw him tense and shift his weight forward, ready to jump up and run to where he was needed.

"No, not seriously. Not yet. But it's only a matter of time. There're only so many people in this monastery, and Ah could absorb 'em all into comas without gettin' so much as a headache."

"So . . . you wanna quit? Is that it?"

"No. Ah'm learnin' more about my powers every day. Ah'm gettin' better at controllin' my body. Ah really, really feel like Ah've got a shot at makin' this work if Ah kin keep practicin'. But Ah'm riskin' people's lives, and that's gotta stop."

"Fair enough. So what's your master plan?"

Rogue scoffed. "If it was a _master_ plan, it'd be a whole lot better. But it's the best plan Ah could come up with. Ah was wonderin' if . . . if _you _would train with me."

Logan sighed. "Yeah, you're right. That's a pretty lousy plan."

"It isn't, though! You've got tons of energy. Ah can absorb lots without hurtin' you. And it ain't like I'm gonna lose control of _your_ powers. Look, Logan, Ah didn't want to ask you, but you're the only mutant here . . . and even if we were at home, Ah think you'd be the best person to ask, if Ah had t'ask somebody."

Logan shook his head. "I can't."

"Please?"

"I'm sorry, Stripes. I would if I could. Really. But I can't let you absorb me. The stuff that goes on in here . . ." He rested his forehead on his hand. "I wouldn't wish this on anybody."

"Ah've absorbed you before."

"Not in the amounts you're talkin'. And anyway, things are different now."

"Ah kin handle it. Ah've absorbed Magneto . . . and Sabertooth . . . and Blob, more than once, which is the world's nastiest experience, bar none. Ah've handled bein' Mystique and I keep all Gambit's secrets. There is nothin' in your head that can scare or hurt me, I know it. Ah trust you."

Logan eyed her skeptically. "That night in Ketchican . . . that was a joke compared to what you'd see."

"Ah handled Ketchican."

"No, you went nuts in Ketchican. Or don't you remember slugging the snot out of a man you'd never met in your life?"

"So you think Ah'm gonna go crazy?"

"No. I think you're gonna get hurt, and you're never gonna forgive me for doin' that to you."

Rogue leaned forward, resting her hands on the floor. "Ah'm a danger to everyone around me. Ah was used against my will to kill a woman who'd never harmed me. And when the boy Ah love left, maybe t'die, Ah couldn't even kiss him. Ah don't wanna live like this for the rest of my life, Logan. Ah can't. So if there's a chance for me to fight my way outta this, I've gotta take it. Ah don't care how much it hurts."

Logan shook his head, but more in resignation than in refusal. "Never could drag you away from a fight, could I?"

Rogue held her breath. Could that possibly have been a yes?

"Conditions," he announced.

Rogue nodded. "Yeah. Conditions. Absolutely."

"One: If I think you're cracking, I can call this off. No negotiation, no begging, no guilt trips . . . just done. And if I think you need to go home to the Professor, you're going. Immediately."

"Sure. Yeah."

"Two: I'll try to keep the worst stuff away from you, but regardless, everything you see in my head goes with you to your grave. Not a word. Not a thought. To anyone. Ever. As long as you live."

Rogue nodded. "Ah swear."

"All right. We'll give this a shot."

Rogue felt a grin burst across her face. "Oh, _Logan!_" She jumped across the room and hugged him. "Thank you. Thank you so much!"

Logan reluctantly hugged her back. "Don't thank me yet, kid."

* * *

"De red one's connected to de . . . green one . . . de green one's connected to de . . . battery . . . de black one's supposed t'be a . . . ground wire . . . but it obv'usly . . . isn't . . ."

He needed to go out clubbing or something. Check out the night life on the Piazza Santo Spirito, have a drink, dance with strangers. Talk to some people. He was starting to go a little crazy, if singing to himself while re-wiring locks was any indication.

"Aaaaaaand . . . snip." He fitted his wire cutters around what he was ninety-five percent sure was the right wire and sliced through it. The door the lock was holding shut gave a soft pneumatic hiss.

Gambit put his tools back in his gear bag, closed the panel he'd opened up, and climbed to his feet. Three nights to find the building, two to find the elevator, one to disable the motion detector, one to crack the thumbprint-keyed lock. And that didn't count all the nights he'd spent working other jobs to keep the Guilds' attention and to keep money pouring into his new Foundation. All for this—getting through this door.

He dug his fingers into the gap between the doors and pulled in opposite directions. The door resisted, but reluctantly eased open. Gambit wedged himself into the space and propped it open with his collapsed quarterstaff. Then he ducked through into Sinister's main lab.

Now _this_ was more like it.

The underground lab had almost twice the floor space of the one upstairs. The equipment in it was familiar: there was a laser like the one Sinister had used to burn Rogue, three exam tables with heavy leather straps, a whole table full of needles for drawing blood and administering drugs. The place reeked horrifically. One wall was covered in cages, and in every cage was a small animal, dead. Their food and water dishes were empty. No one had been down here to feed them in months.

There were three computers in this main lab space, a wall full of locked cabinets, a locked refrigerator, four locked doors leading elsewhere. Gambit found himself grinning. So many locks . . . so many precious treasures hidden behind them. It was like a candy store down here. If you didn't count the smell.

He yanked out his picks and headed for the first door. Time to start opening presents. He slipped the tools into the keyhole and coaxed the pins out of the way until he could turn the handle.

He could feel the temperature drop a few degrees as he entered the room. The far wall was covered, from floor to ceiling, in square metal doors with long industrial-refrigerator handles. Four across and four down: sixteen all together.

Gambit chose one at random and pulled it open. A cloud of cold, silvery vapor came pouring out and dissipated as it hit the floor. He found himself face-to-toe with a cadaver, neatly toe-tagged. _26543, 1A2B. _

He pulled on the metal shelf on which the body rested. It rolled out easily, revealing the naked, blue-gray body of a man in his forties. The man's eyes were still open.

He pushed the body back in and closed the door, then tried the next cabinet. This one was a woman, her silver hair hacked off in a shabby mess around her ears, which ended in delicate points. The irises of her eyes were a startling, brilliant silver-gray. Her tag read _26544, 1A3G._

The third held a little girl of no more than ten years old. _26545, O_. Gambit ashamedly lowered his eyes as he closed the cabinet up again, unwilling to violate her further by staring at her.

_A, B, G, O_. Alpha, Bega, Gamma and Omega powers. All these people were mutants. And nothing would ever make him believe that they'd _all_ decided to generously donate their bodies to science.

Gambit walked out of the morgue, shut the door behind himself, and sat down on the floor to put his head between his knees. He couldn't let himself puke while he was on a job.

Without all the good luck they'd had, Rogue could have been in one of those cabinets. Or Jean. Or any of the Morlock kids. And those bodies had been people, with families and lives, who'd been kidnapped, locked up, experimented on, and killed, just because their genetic code had made them valuable. No one had mourned them. No one had even had the reverence to close their eyes.

More than ever, Gambit wished that Kurt were here. These people deserved to be prayed for, just in a show of common respect for their humanity, and Gambit hadn't prayed since his mother's funeral mass when he'd decided God didn't exist. But even if he was an atheist and a criminal, he was the only person here. And someone had to pray for these people. It felt wrong not to.

"_O mon Jésus,_" he murmured, staring at the tile floor,_ "pardonnez nous tous nos péchés, préservez-nous du feu de l'enfer, et conduisez au Ciel toutes les âmes__, __especiellement celles qui ont le plus besoin de votre misericorde__._" He crossed himself, the gesture an automatic relic of his childhood, then sat for a long time with his face buried in his hands while he pulled himself together.

His triumphant return to Muir Island was going to have to wait until he'd found a way to properly bury all these bodies. He couldn't leave them down here like this, forgotten in refrigerators like last week's leftovers. It was going to be expensive and time-consuming, not to mention dangerous . . . how was he going to explain to anyone how he'd come into possession of sixteen unidentified dead bodies? . . . but it had to be done. If there was a cure for Rogue down here, it was because of what these poor mutants had lost. He owed it to them.

* * *

Rogue opened her eyes from her meditation to see Logan approaching her up the slope of the mountain. The grass made a soft hissing sound as he brushed past it. The blades were no longer pale green, as they'd been when she'd come here: they were yellow-gold now. The summer was passing around her.

"All right, Azami-chan?" Logan inquired.

Rogue nodded. "Shuffling through personalities again."

"Who'd you end on?"

"Jamie."

"Good." Logan sat cross-legged in front of her. "If you'd said 'Magneto' I might have called off this whole thing."

Rogue laughed.

"Any sign of Carol yet?"

"Nah. But Ah think Ah've found the Professor's block—Ah keep hittin' a point where I get all disoriented and blank. She's gotta be behind there somewhere. Ah'm hopin' once Ah get mah powers under control, Ah'll have better luck forcin' mah way through the blocks. Hopefully things'll just be a little more organized up here." She tapped her forehead.

"On that note."

Rogue pulled the glove off her right hand and set it on her knee. "Yep. Time to give this thing a shot."

"You been usin' your right hand this whole time?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Might want to try the left for a while. The halves of your body are wired up to different halves of your brain. I dunno if it'd help, but it's worth a shot."

"Oh." Rogue struggled desperately to control her body's reactions, to stop her blush before it started. "Ah don't think it makes much difference, really."

"Might as well try it."

"Rather not."

"Why not? Did you hurt yourself?" Concerned now, he snatched for her left hand. Too fast—he always had been quicker than her. Rogue tried to pull away subtly, but there was no way she was going to manage it. Holding her wrist in one hand, he pulled off her glove. It was cotton knit, more comfortable than leather in the summer heat, and it slid right off. The platinum ring gleamed like a star in the morning sunshine.

Logan raised an eyebrow. Rogue blushed scarlet. "Present from Remy," she mumbled.

"Really." Logan used her glove like a potholder to remove the ring from her finger. "Before or after he promised the Professor he wouldn't steal anymore?"

"After he got permission to go for his Master's Mark. It doesn't matter, anyway . . . it's so small, how could it possibly make any difference?"

Logan held up the ring, letting the emerald and the red diamond catch the light in bright flares of color. "You know what these stones are? Do you have any idea how much this thing is worth?"

"Ah guessed probably a lot."

"About as much as the Danger Room."

Rogue yanked her arm out of his grip and snatched the ring back from him. "Don't matter. He had permission to break the rules for the good'a the Institute . . . the Professor never said anything about what he was supposed to do with the money he stole. He had it made for me, and Ah'm keepin' it. End of discussion." She slipped the ring back onto her finger.

Logan gave her a long, speculative look. "Rogue, you'd better be straight with me right now. Are you doin' this training for yourself, or are you doing it for him? Because if you think so little of yourself that you'd try to rewrite everything you are for the sake of some guy who gives you sparkly jewelry, you're never gonna make it through this. Love like that can make you do crazy things, but it isn't motivation enough to push through everything you're gonna have to face."

Rogue swallowed and took a long minute to think before she replied. "The first person Ah'm doin' this for is me. The second person is Carol—controllin' my powers might be the first step tuh rememberin' her, and Ah owe her that much. And the third's Remy. Of course he's part of it . . . he can't not be. He's part'a me. But even if he didn't exist, Ah'd still be doin' this. Because Ah need to. Just like he'd be out there winning his Master's Mark whether or not Ah was here for him to send jewelry to. We both got somethin' to prove to ourselves, but we're not either of us stupid enough to think we kin do anythin' just for ourselves anymore."

Logan nodded, a sigh of resignation escaping him. "Fair enough. Let's get to work."

* * *

Never one to be reverent about anything for very long, Remy thought to himself that he was glad he'd been adopted into the Thieves' Guild, rather than the Assassins', because quietly disposing of dead bodies was quite a job of work.

It had taken weeks of wading through the Italian bureaucracy, obtaining plots and permits, quietly purchasing forged death certificates, and bribing just about everyone. He was going to have to get out of Florence, and fast: half the city's criminal classes had to be convinced by now that he was a quirky serial murderer. But, at long last, the thing was done. Sixteen discreet plaques quietly marked sixteen fresh graves. There were no names; Sinister had not even left his victims that much humanity. His records were barren of any mention of who his test subjects were or where they came from. Each one of the plaques bore the same inscription:

_Here Rests a Human Soul  
Deserving of Better Things_

Remy stood among them with his hands in the pockets of his duster, listening to the faint echoes of the funeral mass being said in the church that overlooked the cemetery. It was a blazingly sunny day, which struck him as inappropriate. It ought to rain at funerals. He could hear the traffic a few streets away, mingling with the occasional raised voices of crazy Italian drivers cursing other crazy Italian drivers. Even in the middle of this grassy space, the air still smelled of hot pavement and engine exhaust and coffee. But Remy wasn't seeing any of it.

His mind was wandering back to another lifetime . . . a time when he'd still been a stupid teenager, when he'd left New Orleans to seek adventure and cause trouble, when Bella was just a childhood crush and Rogue was eye candy, when he spent his evenings betting on cards against Colossus and playing practical jokes on Sabertooth, when he took money and orders from Magneto simply because he had nothing better to do.

Magneto. A paranoid fanatic, he would have said then. So he wanted to elevate mutants at the expense of ordinary, 'flatscan' humans? Fine, if it made him happy and he was willing to pay for it. It was just hard to take him seriously when Remy had been raised among flatscans, and considered many of them to be his friends and his family. But now, as he stood at the graves of so many mutants so barbarically killed by an avaricious flatscan, he began to regret disregarding Magneto's position. Standing here, it was hard to say that he'd been entirely wrong.

The church bells started to toll. Remy turned and walked away. He'd rented the fastest car he could find for the trip back north: a dark green Ferrari, which was waiting for him across the street from the cemetery. All the medical records, the blood and skin samples, and the computer hard drives were carefully arranged in the small back seat. It was time to get out of Italy, away from the tourists and the heat. Time to go back to Muir Island and see if any life could be extracted from all this death. For Rogue's sake, for his own sake, for the sakes of those sixteen people . . . even for Magneto, might his very troubled soul rest in peace. . . he hoped Doctor MacTaggart was up to the task. It would simply be too sick if all this bloodshed were to be for nothing.

* * *

Rogue screamed bloody murder.

She tried to hold it in, but she wasn't strong enough, and a frantic shriek of agony came tearing out of her unwilling throat. She could feel her muscles hanging off her bones in torn shreds, could feel the molten metal searing her all-too-sensitive nerves. They'd skinned her face off to encase her scull in fire . . .

No, no. She was whole and strong, her skin unbreakable. No one had hurt her. She was sitting in the sunshine with Logan, and all this pain was just someone else's memory.

She gasped in a few trembling breaths, remembering that there was no breathing tube down her throat and that she was surrounded by air and grass, not biostasis fluid. "Oh, mah gosh," she choked. "That _hurt_."

"Sorry," Logan winced. "I thought that one was sealed off."

"You're _apologizin'_ for what those freaks did to you?" Rogue scrubbed the back of her hand, rubbing away the healing itch of her claw-wounds. "Man, that is so messed up."

"Yeah, I was dysfunctional before they had a word for it. You wanna call it a day?"

"No. Let's keep going."

"We've never worked this long before. The harder we push, the more my memory blocks are gonna break down. You're gonna get more nasty ones like that."

"Not if Ah manage tuh not absorb you. Pretty good motivation."

"Okay," Logan sighed, shaking his head in disapproval. "Get yourself ready."

Rogue closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. She felt her heart rate slow down and her _chi_ energy relax into a steady swirl. It was all about visualizing it right. She just had to lock Logan out, seal off her mind and energy from his. She imagined armor across her skin, like Colossus's steel plating, locking her deadly, hungry power away from where it could grab Logan again.

Logan brushed a finger across her hand, and she tasted blood and vomit and salt in her mouth . . . there was sand under her cheek, and icy cold water lapping over her body, and men were screaming all around her. She'd been killed four times, and she hadn't even cleared the water yet . . . there were so many endless, bloody yards left to reach the pillboxes . . .

Rogue jerked back, brushing imaginary sand off her face. "Looked like somethin' outta _Saving Private Ryan_."

"Couple beaches over, but yeah, same day."

"Drat. Okay." The armor idea obviously wasn't working. Time to try something else. She imagined her power as thorns all over her skin, like the thistle she'd been nicknamed for, thorns that would stab Logan when he touched her. She imagined them smoothing away, leaving the back of her hand as soft and harmless as a rose petal.

Logan touched her again, and she felt Sabertooth's claws gauge into her back, slipping between her armored ribs into her left lung. She snarled at the pain, feeling bitterness and fury swell up inside her. She'd kill him this time, claw through his neck and slice his head from his body and bury them on different continents. Her fist lashed out, and if she'd actually had any claws she would have buried them in Logan's head. Instead, her incompetent left hook missed him entirely as it swung through nothing more than air.

She sighed in annoyance, keeping her eyes resolutely closed. "Man, do you have _any_ memories that aren't about head-splitting pain?"

"I warned you the nasty ones would pop up if you pushed this too hard."

"Again."

"We should really quit now."

"_Again._"

Her powers were a fire, burning eternally all over her. And her control was a fine mist of water, drifting over the flames, cooling them to ashes, then to nothing but harmless steam.

And then the touch came . . .

She was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew. It was too early for anyone else to be up, but a clean, floral scent drifted into the room, setting every nerve on fire and stabbing through her heart with a fierce, dull ache that lingered like no physical pain possibly could, and she knew that Jean had just walked in. They were alone in the quiet, dawn-golden house.

_Tell her the truth, take your chances. No consequences could possibly hurt worse than this. _Any risk was acceptable, if there was even a faint possibility of holding her and seeing her eyes fill with joy and trust and excitement . . .

Then there was Scott, his inoffensive scent of wool-blend sweaters and pencil shavings burning her nostrils. The jealousy was as primal and basic and uncontrollable as the reflex to jerk a hand away from a hot stove . . . but he was only a kid, and she couldn't, _couldn't_ hurt him . . .

Rogue convulsed and gasped, her eyes shooting open and her skin crawling in horror. Her chest still ached so fiercely she couldn't tell if her heart was still beating at all. And she understood why Logan hadn't wanted to do this training, why he'd been so reluctant to burden her with what went on inside his head . . . why he'd left the mansion, why he'd been acting so hostile and withdrawn, why Remy had been so concerned about him. Logan was in love with Jean.

He wouldn't meet her eyes. His teeth were clenched, trying to hold back the frustration, shame, and pain.

"Logan . . ." her voice cracked, and tears wavered blurrily in her eyes. She blinked, and they slipped through her lashes and slid unashamedly down both of her cheeks. "Oh, _Logan_. Ah'm so sorry."

"What, you don't have grief enough of your own to cry for?" Logan asked her. "I knew I shouldn't have agreed to this."

"No, it's all right," Rogue insisted.

"It's not. I came out here to forget about this, not to make you deal with it, too."

"You didn't 'make me deal with it'," Rogue insisted, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand and struggling to get her voice under control. "Ah saw it by accident . . . and Ah'm glad. You're my friend, Logan. And friends support each other. Ah wouldn't want you to have to go through this by yourself any longer than you had to."

"Don't want your pity."

"Who's pitying? Ah _felt _it." Rogue pressed a fist against her chest, where the ache was slowly fading as his energy drained out of her. "It hurt _so much_. If it were me, Ah woulda done anything tuh make that stop. No matter how much it hurt anybody else. By the time it got that bad, I wouldn't care. But you . . . you've been acting like nothin's wrong, just goin' on like usual, for the Professor and for Scott . . ."

Logan shook his head. "No. Just for her."

Rogue sat back and stared at him. "Mah gosh, Logan," she breathed. "Ah can't believe how brave you are."

Logan finally looked up at her, a wry, resigned smile on his face. "You're really somethin', Rogue, if that's your only reaction."

"Hey, believe it or not, you're not the first person in the house to fall for a team member. D'you have any idea how long I spent all mah time moping over Scott? _Years_. Even after he started dating Jean. Even after Gambit came. Even now, every once in a while. Ah think . . . if not for mah powers . . ." She shook her head. "In some other world, some other life, Ah coulda had Scott, you could've had Jean, Remy could've had Bella and we all woulda been happy. Everybody matched up like puzzle pieces."

"Never does work out the way you plan, is it?"

"Got that right." A brief, bitter laugh forced its way out of Rogue's throat. "Mah gosh, Logan, ain't we a sorry couple'a wrecks?"

Seemingly against his better judgment, Logan laughed, too. "That's exactly what we are, Stripes. Hank McCoy himself couldn't have put it better."

Rogue imagined Beast studying them through his glasses and solemnly diagnosing them as 'a sorry couple of wrecks,' and cracked up completely. She fell over onto the grass, clutching helplessly at her stomach, and laughed until tears of mirth and sorrow poured down her face. Her gasps of laughter tangled with sobs and hiccoughs, but somehow the joy and sadness managed to co-exist inside her without diminishing one another. She could hear Logan laughing next to her, but couldn't see him through the prickly golden grass stems. Isolated but unified, they laughed and grieved until their strength ran out, then lay in exhausted silence in the grass, listening to the wind.

A sorry couple of wrecks. But at least they were in it together.

* * *

Author's Notes:

I solemnly swear that I will remember the section breaks this time. Sorry about that last chapter, y'all . . .

In Japanese, it's pretty common to turn someone's name into a pet name by trimming it to one syllable before adding the tag. Aza-chan, Azami-chan . . . it's all good.

In case the tune didn't spring to mind, Remy's changing the words to that song about how all the bones go together. You know the one. I know you do.

The prayer here quoted is called the Fatima prayer, and its English version is as follows:

Oh my Jesus, forgive us all our sins, preserve us from the fire of Hell, and guide to Heaven all souls, especially those who have the most need of Your mercy.

To indulge my own geekiness, I have decided that Logan was among the first to storm Juno Beach, as part of the North Shore Regiment, 8th Brigade, 3rd Canadian Infantry Division. Juno is, indeed, two beaches away from Omaha Beach, where _Saving Private Ryan_ opens. Canadian forces on Juno took comparable casualties to the Americans on Omaha, and had to overcome heavier defenses. Here endeth the history lesson for today.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

Remy stole another boat to make it back to Muir Island. He wanted the freedom to leave when he needed to, without warning. Xavier and MacTaggart might be friends, but the Center was not the Institute, and the people there had not yet earned his trust.

It looked like Sean and Piotr had made a lot of progress on that addition to the building: the new wing was visible from the dock. He'd been gone longer than he'd expected to be.

He jumped from the prow of the serviceable little craft and wrapped the painter line around the closest mooring on the dock. "Colossus!" he shouted across the island. "Get down here an' gimme a hand wid all dis, yeh useless Commie!" He grinned at his mental image of Piotr, wherever he was, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

The first person down to the dock to help him was not Piotr, but Betsy the violet-haired telepath. She was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, her hair was tied back in one long ponytail, and her face was glossy with sweat. "You certainly took your time," she remonstrated, jogging along the length of the dock to where Gambit was unloading his cargo. "What on earth is all this?"

"Dis," Gambit announced, hauling another box of records onto the dock, "is hope."

Betsy lifted one of the boxes onto her shoulder, without difficulty but with plenty of annoyance. "Hope certainly is heavy."

"Yeah, an' it don't climb islands by itself, so get movin'."

Betsy scoffed at him and headed up the slope at a jog. Gambit picked up a second carton and the cooler of samples and followed her.

"Guess who's back!" Betsy called as she opened the front door. "And he brought more presents than Father Christmas."

Everybody but Betsy seemed to have been hard at work painting the interior walls of the new addition; they emerged into the hallway wearing color-spattered clothes. Sean had pale yellow streaks in his flaming red hair.

"Good hunting?" Piotr asked, wiping his hands on a scrap of drop cloth.

"An'den some," Gambit confirmed. "Dey's a whole bunch left in my boat. Gimme a hand?"

"Come on, Pete," Sean ordered. "Good t'see you again, lad." He tousled Gambit's hair as he passed; Gambit reached up and found his fingers damp and sticky with yellow paint.

Moira was already disemboweling the boxes.

"Holy heavens," she muttered, leafing eagerly through the stacks of papers, pausing occasionally to pull out a folder and peruse its contents, "There's got to be fifty years' worth of research in here! And these . . ." She opened the sample cooler and stared in disbelief at the endless rows of vials, all carefully packed in ice. "This is more than twice the number of samples I've collected in my entire career. Bye the bye," she interrupted herself, glancing up at Gambit, "did you, or did you not, donate to this center a quarter of a million U.S. dollars under the name 'International Foundation for Genetic Research'?"

Gambit frowned. "Only a quarter million? Thought for sure it would've been more by now. You work on dese, an' I'll call my lawyers."

"You are going to do absolutely nothing of the sort, young man!" Moira snapped.

Gambit recoiled, eyeing her warily.

Moira sighed, shaking her head, a resigned smile sneaking onto her face. "Right now, you're going to go fetch up the rest of this lot. A quarter of a million dollars is plenty for now. With all this material to work with, I'm sure it'll take me at least a week to spend it all."

Gambit grinned. It seemed he'd brought Moira around to his own unique way of thinking . . . at least for a while.But he _was_ going to make some calls and find out what was gumming up the works in his resource-dispersement system. As soon as he'd brought up the rest of the boxes, and maybe had some lunch . . . and washed the paint out of his hair.

* * *

Two hours later, changed, fed, and unpacked, Gambit was playing one-on-one basketball against Piotr on the dirt half-court behind the Center.

They'd played a lot of basketball as well as a lot of poker when they'd been Acolytes together—the job had involved more than its fare share of hurrying up and waiting, and they'd grasped at anything that would pass the time. Piotr hadn't known how to play basketball when Magneto recruited him; he now beat Gambit regularly. As Piotr blocked another of his shots, Gambit vowed that he would never again teach this game to anyone five inches taller than him.

"Hard time out there?" Piotr asked, shoving Remy out of the way as he charged for the half-court line.

Remy let him go. "Usual, really."

"Then why aren't you bragging?" Piotr tried to charge past him again, this time heading for the basket, but Remy darted at him and snatched the ball away. "Usually, you refuse to shut up about your breathtaking feats of thievery."

"Okay. It was a hard time," Remy admitted. He dashed back to half court, pivoted on the loose pebbles, and tried for a jump shot. The ball circled the rim and bounced out, straight back into Piotr's hands. "But it's over, an' I don't much wanna talk about it. New topic. How's life been in Scotland?"

"Quiet." Piotr took the ball out and feinted a few times, trying to throw the much-quicker Remy off balance. Finally, he just shoved Remy into the dirt and put a shot away. "The building work is nearly done." He passed the ball back and stopped for breath.

"So you gonna build 'em a real basketball court next?" Gambit gave the ball an experimental couple of bounces, then darted forward and shot. Piotr wasn't fast enough to block him: the ball rattled against the backboard and dropped through the hoop.

"I don't know what I'll do next. I like living here, but this is a research center and I am a farmer. There's not very much I can do to contribute to Moira's work."

"I don' think de good doctor's gonna throw y'out."

"She doesn't have to. I won't live on charity when I can earn my way."

Remy mopped sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt. "You ever consider the Xavier Institute? Dey's in de market for heavy-lifters. You and Sam Guthrie could take turns slammin' your heads into de basement walls."

Colossus laughed. "I had my chance there. The Wolverine offered to let me join, then called me Magneto's tool when I refused him. He would not be glad to see me again."

"Dat was just him shootin' off his mouth. What were you s'posed t'do? Metal powers and a whole family a'leverage . . . Magneto had you in a bind, an' he knew it. I ain't sayin' you had _no_ choice but to take his orders . . . but y'had a lot less choice dan I did. And Xavier took me on anyway. If I can make it dere, you sure as blazes can, you bein' a nicer person dan me and all."

Colossus laughed at him and shot the ball at his head. Gambit caught it and shot it back. "T'ink about it while y'practice your free throws. I'm goin' inside."

It had been three hours since Moira had closed the door of her office behind her. Three hours had to be enough. Gambit knocked on the door and let himself in. "How's it comin'?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant and failing.

"Good thing you're the patient type," Moira sighed. She stood up from her microscope, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Goodness, Gambit. I barely even know what I'm looking at yet. It's going to be weeks, at least, before I have any idea of what I can do with these data."

"But d'you t'ink somet'in' here's gonna help Rogue?"

"Young man, all I can tell you is 'maybe'." Moira smiled. "But yesterday, I would have told you 'no'."

Gambit grinned. "Okay. I'll come back in a few weeks to touch base."

"Will you leave a phone number this time?"

"_Non_. Too dangerous. But I won't wander far. De Foundation guys'll have ways'a contactin' me if dey's an emergency."

"Sure you couldn't stay awhile? I know Piotr loves to have you here, and you know you're more than welcome."

Gambit shook his head. "I already spent all de time I could spare. Gotta hunt."

* * *

For the first time, Rogue dreamed of Carol Danvers.

She was taller than Rogue, but not by more than a couple of inches. Her face was a classic oval, but with a faint cleft in her chin that suggested a determined personality. Her hair was blonde, straight, thick, and long enough to brush the waistband of her jeans, and her clear and focused eyes were gray-blue. She and Rogue stood on the tarmac of an airfield, quietly surveying one another.

"Carol," Rogue breathed. Although the other woman was much older than she, first names didn't seem inappropriate.

Carol stared at her, and the stare was that of an intelligent and lucid person who had no idea where she was but was trying to stay calm. "I never did catch your name."

"Rogue. Ah'm Rogue."

"Rogue," Carol repeated. "Nice to meet you."

Rogue's dream-throat was so dry she wondered if she'd be able to talk at all. "Yeah, me too."

The silence was desperately awkward.

"The Professor blocked you," Rogue announced, the words bursting out of her when she couldn't stand the pressure anymore. "He thought you were too dangerous for me to handle. Thought you'd hurt me."

Carol laughed bitterly. "And you want to know if I would? Sorry to disappoint . . . I barely remember who or what I am. My body is _gone_. I never realized how much of _me_ my body was. It's so hard to feel, so hard to _be_, when there's nothing solid around you to just _be you_. I don't know if I would hurt you. Maybe I would . . . if I had hands to hurt you with."

Rogue woke up, gasping.

On the other futon, Logan's eyes flew open. He was an extremely light sleeper. Rogue raised a hand, assuring him that she was okay, and held still until he slept again. Then she got up and went outside, not bothering to slip on the shoes that stood outside the door.

Black clouds were billowing across the sky, silently extinguishing the stars. A storm was coming. She could feel the drop in barometric pressure: it made her feel unnervingly weightless, as though she were underwater and struggling to keep her feet on the bottom of the pool. The wind was warm, but fierce, dragging bits of grass and dirt across the mountain in its wake. Her hair . . . had it really been so long yesterday? . . . tangled and twisted around her face and into her mouth and eyes.

A big summer tempest. The kind that had everyone in the mansion lying awake in their beds, wondering and worrying, until Ororo came to their doors to murmur her gentle assurances. No wind or rain could hurt them while Storm watched over their house.

Rogue cast herself back into her mind and let herself drop into her memories of Storm's absorbed personality. Storm wasn't afraid of rain, or lightning, or wind . . . not because she was brave, but because she understood them. The elements yielded to her will, because she could speak their language. In Kenya, her people had called her a goddess. Of course she wasn't . . . she was just a mortal, human mutant, like the rest of them . . . but somehow she was, all the same. She drew the living energy of the elements to her, accepting and guiding, with all the gentle wisdom of a beneficent deity.

_Imagine you are a goddess . . . _

Rogue imagined. She imagined that the energy of living people flowed to her like lightning flowed to Storm, freely and innocently, because it loved her and knew she would accept it. But goddesses didn't _take_ . . . they gave back, they blessed things, always offering more than they had received from their supplicants. They didn't turn away worshippers, destroying their faith with protests of their own mortality . . . they just accepted, and did what good they could with the powers and the love bestowed upon them.

_Let the storm flow into you, and savor it, and give it back._

Rogue found herself at the door of the room she shared with Logan. She didn't dare to let her feet touch the ground . . . didn't dare to connect herself to anything, physical or abstract. She felt open and clean and light as air . . . partly from her own focus and meditation, partly from Storm's memories . . . but it was anyone's guess how long she could hold herself like this.

She slipped inside and knelt in the air next to Logan's bed. He slept on.

She thought of how much she loved Logan, and how much he loved her, and reached out her hand to rest her ring and middle fingers against the skin of his forehead.

His essence rushed into her, burning, but she didn't try to fight the pain of it. She just became more still, more calm, letting it hurt if it wanted to, not letting herself tense or resist. The energy wanted to come to her; she had to let it come.

Then she gave it back.

It was like exhaling air, but it wasn't a physical movement at all. She just took the energy that was welling up inside her and poured it back to where it had come from, redirecting and guiding. She couldn't stop it from rushing to her, but she could keep it going in the right direction, through her and back into Logan. The energy made a bright, flowing loop up her arm, around her heart, and down through her arm again. Gradually, she pushed it away until it just swirled through her hand: up the middle finger, once around the palm, and down the ring finger again. She couldn't hear his memories.

The whole experience had taken less than a second. Logan never stirred.

As soon as the words _Oh, mah gosh, Ah think Ah did it_ flickered through Rogue's mind, her concentration cracked. The neat spiral of energy exploded through her body, filling her head with the first memory that flickered through Logan's mind. Unfortunately, it was a memory of being hit in the head with something. Rogue recoiled from the remembered impact, hit the far wall, and fell in a heap on her mattress.

Logan shot awake with a snarl and a ringing of extended claws. "Azami?"

"Ah'm okay," Rogue insisted, untangling herself from the knot her limbs had made. "Did Ah hurt you?"

"Wouldn't have minded you waiting until morning," Logan grumbled, retracting the shining blades and rubbing the spot on his forehead where she'd touched him. "What were you doing . . . sleepwalking?"

"Ah had a dream," Rogue admitted. "And Ah went outside to think, and it all sort of . . . clicked. Ah touched you, Logan, and you didn't even wake up. It was just for a second, but Ah did it. _Ah did it._"

Logan stared at her, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. "You're kidding."

"Ah'm not."

"Sure you weren't dreaming?"

"Positive."

Logan started to smile. Then he started to laugh. "You did it! You did it, kid!"

Rogue wanted to hug him, but couldn't see how to manage it with her gloveless and him shirtless, so she lifted into the air and did a backwards somersault to let off some of her excitement. "Ah can't believe it!"

"Nobody's gonna believe it. Just _wait_ until we tell 'em about this at the Institute."

Rogue laughed. "Ah think Ah've got a lot of work to do before we make that phone call." But her mind filled with images nonetheless . . . hugging Kurt, touching Scott's face, wearing ordinary tank tops and t-shirts to school, joining in with the splash wars when the team played in the pool, Remy Remy Remy . . .

A flash of lightning made the room glare bright as day, and the following thunder shook the building so fiercely Rogue wondered if it was going to jolt right off the foundations. Even in the air, she could feel the impact. The rain hit in a rush of sound, the droplets roaring against the roof tiles.

Logan lay back down on his mattress. "Go to sleep, darlin'. We'll tackle it in the morning, after the storm's passed. And you don't have to tell anybody until you're ready. Your secrets are as safe with me as mine are with you."

Rogue dropped onto her bed, wrapped herself in her blanket, and fell asleep like a teenage girl for the first time in her life: her head filled with hope and excitement and daydreams of the boy she loved.

* * *

Remy was back at Muir Island three weeks to the day after he'd left. He'd tried to talk himself into staying away longer, but it was no use. He had to know what was going on.

"We've been watching your work in Edinburgh," Moira told him as he pulled up a lab stool and sat down. "At least, Piotr assures me it's yours."

"He knows my style," Remy allowed. Trying, unsuccessfully, to sound casual, he asked, "And how's your work coming?"

Moira smiled. "Do you want to know all of it, or just the parts that might affect Rogue?"

"All of it." Remy had never been as proud of anything in his life as he was of the resources he'd given to the Center. Any good that came of this, he had the right to take some credit for, even if it was just in his own mind. But being a hero sure felt good sometimes.

Moira's smile turned to a grin. It seemed she'd just been itching to show all this off. "Well, then." She reached across him to her refrigerator of samples and pulled the door open. "This one," she began, pulling out one of the all-but-identical vials and handing it proudly to Gambit, "is a manifestation accelerant. Injected into a child of at least one mutant parent, it triggers a premature cascade of the hormones that cause powers to emerge." She set it down and picked up another. "This one is a base power-copier. Take a blood sample from a mutant patient, treat it with the right chemicals, mix it with this, inject it into someone else . . . that person will have the donor's abilities for about half an hour."

Gambit nodded. "I seen both'a dese work. It's incredible."

"Well, this one you won't have seen before." She pulled out a new vial. "This is what Sinister was spending most of his time on. It's another copier, but this one is based on Rogue's blood, so the copy is permanent. Human, mutant . . . it doesn't matter. You could mass manufacture mutants with this stuff. Whole armies."

Gambit handed it delicately back. "Let's keep that one just between us."

"My thoughts exactly," Moira agreed. "I don't think Sinister was intending to exploit its military applications . . . at least not yet. He just wanted to be a leech himself. He made up as much of this as he could, charged it with Rogue's copying ability, and ran clinical trials with it."

"Probably when he started schemin' to get her back," Gambit offered. His mind swung briefly back to New Orleans. "But did de trials work?"

"Oh, yes. They worked. He made two Rogue copies, then made them absorb everything he could think of. One killed herself after absorbing an all-but-catatonic mental health patient; the other tried to escape, and Sinister murdered him. He was intending to run a few more of the tests, but he never got the chance." She pulled out another vial, its contents dark, blood-crimson, and studied it speculatively. "He had the drug made up for himself and everything. He died just in the nick of time."

"Well, you kin thank Mystique for dat, not me." He handed back the vial she'd given him, and Moira put them both away.

"This one's good." She pulled out a vial whose contents were pale green instead of just clear. "It's still in a testing phase, but it's very promising. This is the one Sinister was talking about in the paper you showed me: the cure for sickle cell anemia. With some hard work and a bit of luck, we can have it on the market in five years." She placed it in his hand and curved his fingers around it. "Since you were instrumental in obtaining it, you'd be entitled to a share of profits from the patent."

"Do we have t'patent it?" Gambit asked, thinking of the absolutely indecent amounts of money waiting for him in Switzerland. "Can't we just make de stuff?"

Moira grinned. "I always did want to pull a Jonas Salk." She took the vial back and replaced it in the cooler.

The question that he'd been determined not to ask finally squeezed out. "And what about Rogue's suppressant? Is dat in here?"

Moira sighed, and the sudden somber expression that crossed her face was all the answer he needed. "Not in there, no." She closed the refrigerator and handed over a massive stack of loose papers. "In there."

"It does exist?"

"There's no reason why it couldn't. The theory's all there, all the math. It's just a question of making it work. Developing the drug. Running tests. Running trials."

"Time frame?"

"Twenty years."

Gambit stared at her. The words resonated in his head like echoes in an empty Danger Room. "What?"

"These things take time. And money. And work. This research has put us forward by decades, but there's still a lot to be done. Even the _possibility_ of a treatment for Rogue is a miracle."

"Twenty years? Sinister hinted he already had dis, or that he could put it together fast. He wouldn't bargain with what he didn'have. He didn't need to."

"Well, with his research methods and nearly superhuman natural genius, he probably could have finished it within months. But I refuse to hunt down my test subjects and lock them in cages. If you want that kind of research, you'll have to find another lab."

Gambit shook his head. "I'd be offended enough t'hit you if I didn't know you were bein' sarcastic."

Moira sat back, her body posture expressing apology much more than words could. "I'm sorry, Gambit. That's as much as I can give you. I am going to start developing this drug, because people need it, and when it's ready Rogue will be the first person I offer it to. But it won't be for a long time, and that's just the way things are."

Gambit nodded. _Twenty years._

He didn't quite know how he managed to leave the lab, but one way or another he got himself outside on a hill overlooking the Center before he let himself break down. The sun had set, and the darkness was beginning to deepen towards night.

_Twenty years_.

His hopes had been too high . . . he'd known it, but allowed himself to get carried away nevertheless. It was just such an intoxicating dream . . . returning home with a treasure that would put all the precious stones on earth to shame. He'd wanted to see Rogue embrace Kurt as a sister should, without fear . . . wanted to see her kiss Scott's cheek just for the sake of being silly, to make him blush and Jean sulk . . . wanted to see her push back when some jock came after her, willing and able to defend herself without seriously hurting both herself and her opponent. And of course, of _course_, Remy wanted to be able to touch her himself. That was risky territory, he knew—it would be far too easy for Logan, Scott, or the Professor to conclude that Remy had done all this just to get some action, the ultimate romantic conquest. But Rogue would know better. Rogue _knew_ him. She knew that what he wanted most in the world was to make her smile, and to know that the smile was his doing and in some way belonged to him. If he could taste that smile for himself, so much the better.

He wanted her, yes. But more than that, he wanted to give her the whole world, and toss in every star in the sky.

But it was all twenty years away. And time was one of the few things he couldn't steal.

He heard shoes scraping across the rocky ground, and looked up. Betsy was climbing up the hill towards him, confidently finding firm stepping-places among the boulders and crevices. "Moira's sorry the bad news hit you so hard," she offered, her long legs carrying her easily over the last obstacles until she stood on the flat, relatively smooth hilltop.

"Thought psychics weren't supposed to hand out info like dat," Gambit deadpanned. "Stalker/victim confidentiality or somethin'."

"You're funny when you're depressed," Betsy deadpanned back. "She told me. With her voice. And she asked if I would come check on you, to make sure you weren't doing something drastic."

Remy hmphed. As though he could do anything drastic enough to make this frustrating problem any easier to bear.

"You've trained with Wolverine?" she asked, reaching one arm across her chest and wrapping the other around it to stretch out her shoulder and back.

"All de X-Men train wid him."

Betsy switched arms. "Wolverine's one of the few people in this world I have trouble beating in hand-to-hand. He acts too much on instinct . . . there's hardly any conscious thought to follow, so it's hard to predict what he's going to do. It's the closest I've ever had to come to fighting fair."

Gambit glanced up at her with one eyebrow raised. "Was dat a boast, a threat, a challenge, or just a suggestion?"

"Whichever one gets you to spar with me. I'd love the practice, and you need to blow off some steam."

She waited a minute, but when he didn't answer, she cut straight to the chase and swung her foot at his head.

It was a fast kick, and she was certainly strong enough to rattle his brains if she connected. Gambit dropped and rolled, the movement more instinct than planning. He was on his feet in another fraction of a second, just in time to dodge a high spin kick. This girl knew how to use those long legs of hers. He snapped his quarterstaff open and attacked, in no mood to be pushed . . . even if it probably _was_ a good idea to focus on something other than disappointment right now.

Her boast had been well-founded; she was very, very good. Better than anyone at the Institute, except perhaps Logan, and with a very different style. She could move like someone out of a kung fu movie. Remy, by contrast, hadn't really sparred all summer. But his work had forced him to become stronger and more flexible, and to think his moves through more carefully. He could see the surprise in her eyes the second he pushed her past where she'd expected him to quit. Rather than back off to re-analyze, she pushed harder, and Remy found himself resorting to his cards to keep her off balance.

The match, in the end, was hers. She managed to force him onto the uneven footing on the side of the hill, where the pebbles slipped under his boot and dropped him onto one knee. Betsy was in his face with a killing punch before he'd even hit the ground, but she froze her fist a quarter-inch from his nose.

"Good match," Gambit allowed, his eyes crossing as he tried to focus on her knuckles.

"You, too." Betsy relaxed her stance and offered him a hand. He took it, still struggling to get his breath back. "You're better than I expected. Logan did well by you."

Gambit bent backwards to stretch out, taking note of all the places where he was going to be bruised tomorrow. "It's de Cyclops who keeps me on my game, really. An' Rogue. Dat girl's got quite de side thrust kick."

Betsy laughed. "It's really beautiful the way you're so attached to her," she observed, tipping her head sideways as she studied him. "And that's not me being psychic. It's all over your face."

Gambit shrugged. "Some things you go through wid a person, an' y'cain't help bein' attached afterwards." _Like New Orleans_, he added silently, regret catching up to him again. _Like givin' a girl her first real kiss standin' in de sky above de sunrise, swirlin' into one person in two bodies . . . I'd give anythin' t'get dat moment back_.

"You know," Betsy observed casually, "she might be back at the Institute by now. The school year must be starting soon."

For the first time in a long time, Remy checked the date on his wristwatch. September third. September? Could it possibly be September already? Bayville High would be back in session starting tomorrow. And fall semester at UNYB couldn't be far behind. Surely Logan wouldn't let her miss starting college . . .

Betsy was grinning now. He must have let a lot of that train of thought show. He was going to have to work on his poker face.

"There's a phone in the den," Betsy offered. "And considering how much money you've been throwing at the Center, I think no one will begrudge you one international call."

* * *

Rogue and Logan sat cross-legged, facing one another, their hands touching, palm to palm. Rogue could feel his energy swirling up as far as her wrists, but as long as she was perfectly, absolutely still, right down to her very soul, she could hold it back.

_Six one thousand, seven one thousand . . . _

_Ah kin make it to ten. Ah can. _

_But if I'm wrong, I'll zap Logan again. _

_Eight one thousand, nine one thousand . . ._

_Gotta keep pushing, or this is never gonna get any easier._

_Ten one thousand . . ._

She pulled her hands back a split second before her concentration cracked. She felt as though she'd just run suicides on the driveway for half an hour, but the rush of triumph and satisfaction was completely worth it. "Did yeh feel anything?" she gasped, struggling to recover her breath.

"A little dizziness towards the end, but that was it." Logan was grinning at her with pride written all over his rough, careworn face. "Was that a new record?"

Rogue nodded. "New personal best. Ah feel like Ah should tell Scott, so he can update my file in that stupid PDA. He's always really excited about that kind of thing."

She saw a flicker of discomfort cross his face at the mention of Scott's name, but she didn't comment. That was Logan's training. He had to work through his problems, too.

"Might as well," he decided finally. "I've been meaning to call home anyway."

"How come?" Rogue couldn't think of any reason to call home, except a drastic need for backup. "Somethin' wrong?"

"Nah. But school's starting up again, and I probably owe Professor Xavier at least an apology for not bein' there. And for makin' you miss your freshman orientation."

"School?" Rogue demanded. She looked down at her wrist, but saw only the stripe of pale skin that her wristwatch had left before she'd stopped bothering to wear the thing. "It can't really be time for school already!"

"Today's the third of September."

"Oh, mah gosh. Classes start tomorrow morning!"

"Well, it's morning over there, so they've got about half a day more than we do, but yeah. Everybody will be moving back in today."

Rogue thought of the mansion, that big, empty house that was hers to wander during the summer. She'd always liked move-in day. It was always so great to see everybody again after months of quiet and boredom, to have the jabber of yells and crashes and explosions resume around her like nobody had ever left. Would Kitty wake up late next morning because Rogue wasn't there to shake her out of bed?

"We can go down the hill tomorrow morning," Logan offered. "Call from town. We don't have to tell them where we are or what's been goin' on, but we probably owe it to them to tell 'em you're all right."

* * *

Author's Notes:

Jonas Salk invented the polio vaccine. He refused to patent it, which is why polio is now eradicated.

Hm. This whole chapter seems to be in English. I must be slipping.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

* * *

When the phone rang, Storm was the closest to the handset. She picked it up and hit Talk. "Xavier Institute, Ororo speaking."

"_Salut, Orage_. Good t'hear y'voice."

"Gambit?" Storm switched the phone to her other ear and called out to the Professor inside her head. _Professor, Gambit is on the phone, if you'd like to speak to him_. "It's good to hear from you, my friend. Are you all right?"

"Oh, yeah. Peachy keen." In the privacy of the Center's den, Gambit allowed himself a grimace. Everything was just fine, sure . . . except for the refrigerator of drugs that contained everything but what he wanted. "Had some close calls, but it's all in good fun."

Storm chuckled. "You are incorrigible."

"It makes me endearin'."

"If you say so."

* * *

In his bedroom upstairs, Scott looked up when his cell phone rang. He grabbed it out of its charger and studied the screen. He didn't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

An artificially cheerful woman's voice at the other end of the line announced, "You have received an international collect call from . . ."

"Rogue," broke in Rogue's voice, crackly with interference.

"If you wish to accept the charges," continued the perky voice, "say 'yes' now, or press one."

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" Scott practically shouted into the phone.

"One moment, please, while we connect your call."

A few seconds later, he heard Rogue ask, "Scott?"

"Rogue! Oh, my gosh . . ." Scott's free hand reached up to comb his hair off his forehead, as he couldn't help doing when he was stressed or relieved. "Are you okay? Is Logan with you? Where are you?"

Rogue started to laugh. "_Man_, it's great to hear you, Scott. Ah miss you a ton."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. We're just fine, both of us. Just . . . wanted to check in."

Scott slumped back in his desk chair. "Well, I appreciate that. Although calling in like mid-June wouldn't have been bad either."

"We've kinda been out of phone service range," Rogue admitted. "And sorry about the collect call to your cell . . . the house line is busy."

The door of Scott's bedroom swung open, and Jean poked her head in. At the sight of the phone, she pulled back, but Scott shook his head frantically and beckoned her in. _It's Rogue_, he practically shouted at her across their psychic link. _She's okay._

"Oh, my gosh!"

"What?" Kitty demanded, pausing on the main staircase and looking around for what had startled Jean. "What happened?"

"Rogue's on the phone!"

"Oh, my gosh!" Kitty sprinted down the last few stairs, headed for the Professor's office. "Professor Xavier!"

"What is it, Kitty?" Professor Xavier had just left his office, and was crossing the front hall to the kitchen, from which Storm had just emerged with the phone held between her shoulder and her ear.

"It's Rogue! She called! She's on the phone with Scott!"

The phone Storm was holding exploded with noise. Storm grabbed it and held it away from her ear. "I think he heard you."

"Who did?"

"Gambit."

"_Storm!_" Remy was yelling through the phone line now, but she seemed to be deliberately ignoring him. "Storm, let me talk t'her! Come on! Storm!"

"Calm down and be patient, please," Storm ordered him. "Which phone did she call, Kitty?"

"Scott's cell, I think."

"Vhat is going _on _down zere?" Kurt demanded, leaning over the railing of the upper landing.

"Gambit called!" Kitty told him.

"Gambit?"

"Wait a minute," Jean demanded, rounding the corner of the boys' wing. "What about Gambit?"

"He's on ze phone downstairs!"

"You're kidding. Gambit called _now_?"

She said it loud enough that Rogue heard it. "Gambit?" she demanded. "He called? Is he okay? Lemme talk tuh him, Scott!"

"Wait a minute; hang on," Scott ordered, heading out onto the landing with his thumb over the microphone. "_What_'s going on?"

"Gambit called," Storm informed him. She was now holding the phone by its antenna, her arm loose at her side, pointedly ignoring Gambit's perfectly audible efforts to get her attention.

"Is he still on the phone?" Rogue demanded. Scott half-expected the phone to jump out of his hand and go tumbling down the stairs. "Scott, you gotta let me talk tuh him. Come on, Scott! Please!"

"Just hold on," Scott told her again, for all the good it did him.

"What are we supposed to do?" Kitty demanded. "Just hold the phones up next to each other? It's not like we have a switchboard in here."

Scott thought very fast. "Kurt, go get Forge," he ordered.

"On it, man." Kurt was gone a second later, leaving a curling question mark of sulfuric gray smoke where he'd been standing. Less than a minute later, he was back, with a very disoriented Forge coughing next to him.

Scott explained the problem in very few words, but before he'd gotten half way through, Forge already had that manic gleam in his eye. He snatched the cell phone from Scott and spoke to Rogue. "Rogue? Hey, good to hear from you. I'm gonna hook up the phones, so just sit tight. Somebody go get me a really small phillips head screwdriver!"

"Forge, you're a genius!" Rogue cheered. "Ah'll owe you forever." She was familiar with the miracles Forge could perform when armed with a really small phillips head screwdriver.

Logan, leaning against the outside of the phone booth, chuckled at her. The sun was just starting to think about coming up, and the very air seemed to be dark gray. "You are gonna remember that I need to talk to Charles, right?"

Rogue covered the receiver. "Keep your shirt on, will yeh? It's a collect call. We can stay on all day."

She could hear Forge muttering to himself as he did something with the phones. She twisted the metal-encased cord through her fingers, being very careful to not yank it out of the phone box.

"Okay, Rogue," he announced at last. "You're hooked up. Go ahead."

Rogue seized the receiver in both hands. "Gambit?"

"_Salut, ma chère._"

Rogue sagged against the side of the phone booth, shaking with relief. "Oh, _Remy_. Oh, mah gosh. Oh, mah gosh."

"You all right?" he demanded. "'Bout scared me to death, you crazy girl." She could hear his voice shaking with laughter. "What'd you think you were doin', runnin' off like dat? You have any idea how worried I been?"

"Ah'm okay, really. Ah was just goin' so nuts waitin' around for you, not knowin' if you were in prison or shot or what. Ah guess Ah just went kinda crazy. But Logan's been keepin' an eye on me."

"Keepin' you on de right side of de law an' all?"

"Um . . . Ah guess." She pulled the phone away and asked, "Logan, is it illegal to fistfight for money?"

"Sure is, the way we did it."

Gambit had to dab away tears of laughter with his sleeve. "You're kiddin' me."

"Ah wish."

"D'you know how much money I'd've paid t'see dat?"

Rogue laughed. "Well, when you've got a day off, Ah know this great place in Ketchican . . ."

"You crazy, crazy girl." Remy sat back in his chair, closing his eyes and imagining her. "_Sainte ciel_, I missed you. You got no idea."

"Wanna bet?"

"No way. Where's your hair these days?"

"Um . . ." Rogue pinched a bunch of it between her fingers and drew it straight down. "Bottom of my shoulder blades, looks like. Looks shorter 'cause it's curling everywhere now."

Long. Long and curly. If he concentrated very hard, he could almost feel it.

"Yours?" she asked.

"Handspan ponytail. Good for workin'."

"Ah'm glad. You look so goshawful with short hair."

"_Ouch_. Did you _mean_ t'break my heart in two just now, or was it just an accident?"

Rogue laughed, overjoyed that he was teasing her, thrilled just to hear his voice no matter what he was saying. "You know me, Remy. You know me."

Of course he did. He'd been her. And it was crazy to think, but that moment of supreme understanding, the deep and abiding connection that they would always share, had been the result of Sinister's drugs.

Sinister's drugs, in Moira's cooler.

Sinister's permanent potion that he'd mixed up for himself, to make himself a second Rogue.

"Remy?" Rogue's hesitant inquiry made him realize that he'd been silent for too long. "Still there?"

"Rogue, you know you more t'me dan my own life, _n'est-ce pas_?"

There was a long silence at the other end of the line, but it was somehow a full silence, warm with Rogue's happiness. "Ah know."

"And I'd do anyt'in' in dis world t'make you happy."

"Ah know."

A peculiar sound resonated over the phone connection . . . a sort of suppressed whimper, the kind teenage girls made when watching the last five minutes of a romantic comedy, followed almost immediately by a sharp hiss.

Rogue stood bolt upright in her phone booth. "Kitty?"

There was a roar of gasps and laughter. It sounded like the entire Institute.

Gambit roared with laughter. "Dey put us on de speaker!"

"Kitty, why couldn't you just shut up for thirty more seconds?" demanded Amara.

"You're such a blabbermouth!"

"I'm sorry! I couldn't help it!"

"FORGE!" Rogue shrieked. "Forge, Ah'm gonna kill you! Ah am flyin' home right now and Ah am tearin' off every one of your fingers one at a time, you lyin' no-good glorified mechanic!"

"Okay, okay, calm down, I'm sorry." Forge was obviously not that sorry, because he could hardly talk through his laughter. "I'll shut it off."

The extra sound abruptly died.

Rogue hesitated. "How do we know he really did it?"

"Easy," Remy told her. "All I gotta do is announce dat Kitty wrote de name "Katherine Pryde Alvers" on de inside of her science notebook fifteen times in pink pen."

There was silence. "Dat woulda got her if she was still listening," Remy affirmed. "Dey hung up."

Rogue sighed. "Ah'm gonna kill 'em all."

"No harm done. We didn't tell 'em anythin' dey didn't already know."

Her sigh turned to resigned laughter. "Ah guess not."

A relationship in the Xavier Institute never did manage to stay very private for long. Just a fact of life. Gambit sighed, too, and slouched back in his chair with his head flopped back. "_Ma chère, ma Rogue, ma bien aimée_. I needed t'hear your voice."

"Bad day?" she asked gently.

"_Un peu, ouais_. I got . . . a big risk, starin' me in de face. I think I need t'take it, but . . . I just wish y'could be here t'back me up."

He could swear he felt her heart stop. "You be careful, y'hear me?" Rogue ordered, her voice fierce with fear. "Ah know you got your risks yeh need tuh take, but don't you _dare_ let yourself get hurt."

"Don't you worry. One way or another, I'm comin' home t'you. I promise. I swear."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"You tremblin'?" Remy asked.

"Yeah," Rogue admitted. "Gosh, Remy, Ah wish Ah could see you. It's gettin' worse every day. There's so much Ah wanna tell you . . ."

"Tell me."

"Nah. Not like this. It's gotta wait 'till Ah kin see you again."

_See you again. We'll be together. You know me. _

_He had the drug made up for himself._

_Dyin' an' goin' t'heaven would be second best to dat._

_If any money, any skill, any treasure in dis world could buy you freedom . . ._

_He had the drug made up for himself._

"Where are you?" Remy demanded, sitting forward again.

Rogue hesitated. "Ah dunno if Ah should tell you. Logan's been pretty careful about coverin' our tracks."

"I'm comin' t'get you, Rogue. I got a present for you, and I gotta be dere t'see de look on your face. I gotta see you. Tell me where y'are, and I'll come."

"Are you kiddin'?"

"I wouldn't kid about dis."

He heard her sigh and her disbelieving laughter. "Remy, you crazy."

"_Ouais_."

"Don't you got work t'do?"

"Dis is more important."

She laughed outright. "Ah'm in Japan. Hokkaido island. Start in Matsumae and go up the mountain, and you'll find me."

"Hokkaido. Matsumae," Remy repeated. "I'm comin'. Wait for me."

* * *

A click sounded across the line. Hesitantly, Rogue asked, "Remy?"

"Rogue?" Forge's voice answered. "Looks like he hung up."

"Yeah, he did." Rogue took a deep breath to compose herself and come back down to earth. "Okay, Forge. Logan needs tuh talk to Professor Xavier, so kin you give him the phone?"

"Sure thing."

Rogue let the handset dangle on its cord and stepped out of the phone booth. Logan had retreated to the other side of the street, quietly smoking a cigarette to pass the time. "Your turn," she offered, blushing a little. She was not embarrassed enough to forgo taking his cigarette and snuffing it out against her wrist. She knew that tobacco could neither addict nor hurt him, but it was the principle of the thing.

Remy was coming. He was coming here. Her heart raced at the thought, and she felt dizzy with excitement and weak with happiness. He was coming here. And she would kiss him when he came, if determination could make it happen.

* * *

Remy dropped the handset on the side table and took the stairs three at a time as he sprinted back upstairs.

The others were eating dinner. Gambit generally knew better than to interrupt a meal—Cajuns took food very seriously—but right now he was simply too worked up to care. "Moira!"

"Was she home?" Betsy asked, setting down her fork.

Gambit ignored her. "Dat vial in de lab, de one Sinister was makin' t'inject himself wid."

"What about it?" Moira pushed back from the table, worry etched across her face.

"You said it was ready t'use?"

"_Reasonably_ so . . . he was planning to run a few more trials, but—"

"Great. Let's go."

"Go do what?"

"Get de drug!" Remy found his right hand undoing the button of his left cuff. "I need dat stuff."

Moira stood straight up, knocking over her chair. "Are ye daft?" she demanded. "Yeh can't possibly be serious!"

"_Mais si. Regardez_. Sinister once gave me a pop of de short-term serum. And while I was on it, I could touch Rogue. It was pretty intense, but we didn'git hurt. So if her suppressant is twenty years away, den at least I kin take de permanent serum, an' we kin be together. It ain't perfect, but it's enough. And in twenty years, y'kin cure us both."

Piotr stared at him, rising from the table as well. "Gambit, you are crazy," he announced, with all the weighty finality of a determined Russian who could cover himself in steel. "I know Rogue's power. I have suffered its effects. But I have also seen how much she suffers in the bearing of it. You wish me to believe, my friend, that you would not regret restricting yourself to the touch of one woman for all your life?"

"People do it all de time," Gambit pointed out. "Most'a de time dey don't gotta use drugs t'enforce it, but most'a de time dey ain't mutants wid complicated powers, either."

"It's hardly a decision to be made on the spur'a the moment, lad," Sean warned him.

"It's not his decision to make at all," Moira contradicted. "That serum's in my charge, and I refuse. I absolutely refuse."

"He _is_ paying the bills right now," Betsy pointed out, ever practical.

"He can take back every penny. No one must have that serum."

"I kin handle it," Gambit insisted. "I know de risks, an'de sacrifices."

"Good heavens, my friend," Piotr moaned. "How badly could you possibly want to sleep with this girl?"

Remy reached across the table and slugged Piotr in the face. Questioning his motives was one thing. Even being impertinent was hardly something to come to blows over. But insulting Rogue set off all sorts of alarms in Remy's brain, filling his field of vision with fire and shutting off his better judgment. So he hit Piotr, knowing perfectly well that the Russian could hit back a lot harder.

Before Piotr's counterpunch could land, both of them were knocked sprawling on the floor by one blast of Sean's powerful voice.

"Calm down, both of ye, and stop actin' like children," Moira snapped as she bent to pick up her chair. "And Gambit, don't talk nonsense about what you can and cannot handle." She stormed out of the dining room, and returned a few seconds later with a file in her hand. "Just look."

She spread the file out on the table, and pointed to the top of the first sheet. "This one is Rogue. When Sinister first sampled her, a year and a half ago, he classified her as a 1-Alpha mutant. Just one power: absorption, alpha-class because it can significantly affect forces outside her own body. Then a few months later he upgraded her to 4-Alpha. She'd absorbed three new A powers: strength, flight, and invulnerability. 4As are incredibly rare and tremendously powerful. But look at the update he made just a few months before his death."

Remy looked at the scribble that her finger indicated. The 4A had been scribbled out, and next to it was written one letter: _O._

"An Omega mutant," Moira explained, her voice flat with artificial calm, "Is one with a power strong enough to affect the entire globe. The only Omega I've ever personally met is Charles Xavier. But Magneto was Omega, too, and Rogue absorbed him as easily as she would have anyone else."

Remy shot Piotr a dirty look. The blabbermouth had been telling MacTaggart everything. Gambit had hoped that the shared title of 'Acolyte' would mean a little more than that. Not much, maybe, but a little more.

"If Rogue can absorb Omega mutants, then she's an Omega herself. A world-ender. And though her absorption is her own and she's been responsible with it, I can't go handing it out. It's not for me to decide who should have that kind of power."

Gambit took a split second to evaluate his position and reorganize his thoughts. First: Moira was on strong moral ground; she had a case, and she wasn't about to be talked out of it.

Second: he didn't give a curse how right she thought she was, because he was taking that drug. He didn't care if it was dangerous. He didn't care if it was unethical. He didn't care that he'd been raised better than to steal from someone who had offered him hospitality. Right now, he didn't even care that stealing that drug would be a blatant violation of his bargain with Professor Xavier—he hadn't been sent out into the world to steal things simply because he wanted them, no matter how much he wanted them. But he didn't care, didn't care, didn't care. He was a thief. If he wanted it, he would take it.

Third: the direct approach wasn't going to work very well. Besides Moira, whom he couldn't, in good conscience, hurt, there was Betsy, who could kick his trash; Sean, who could knock him out cold from thirty feet away; and Piotr, the human tank. Three Alpha mutants who would happily beat him to a pulp to prevent him from coming anywhere near that cooler. Time to try a new strategy.

He cast his eyes down, avoiding meeting anyone's gaze, trying to communicate frustration, disappointment, and resentment with his body language. "Your decision," he allowed.

"I'm sorry, Gambit," Moira told him. "I wish you hadn't got your hopes up."

"If you want to take back the money you've given the Center, that's your right," Sean admitted.

Gambit shook his head. "I don't take back my gifts. Especially not when they're for helpin' people who need help. But circumstances bein' what dey suddenly is, it might be best if I didn't take advantage of y'hospitality no more. I'll get my things."

* * *

After Gambit left the room, there was silence for fully thirty seconds.

Finally Sean observed, "He took that well."

"He did nothing of the kind," Piotr announced. "Remy LeBeau does not give up so easily." He pushed his chair into the table and headed for the door, organic steel plates springing into existence along his arms and across his face. "If anyone needs me, I will be standing guard in the lab."

* * *

Piotr did not show up at breakfast the next morning. Moira found him in the lab, sprawled on the floor, unconscious.

There was a note stuck to the refrigerator door. _I truly am sorry for this. _It was signed with Remy's insignia. And, of course, the compound was gone.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Well, we sure made up for last chapter's lack of linguistic shenanigans.

_Orage_ is the French for 'Storm.' That it is so similar to her real name is just handy. And _salut_, of course, is 'hi'.

_Sainte ciel_: Holy heaven.

_N'est-ce pas_? Isn't that right?

_Ma bien aimée_: my well beloved.

_Un peu_: a bit.

_Mais si. Regardez: _Oh, yes. Look.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note:

Yes, I'm putting the author's note at the top this time. We've got a lot of Japanese to get through.

_Domo arigato_ is 'thank you very much.'

_Sore wa nan desu ka? _is "What's that?" and _Sore wa turbulence desu_ is 'it's turbulence.' At least, 'it's something'. I couldn't find a word for 'turbulence', and it struck me as the sort of thing that could easily be assimilated from English . . . once again, if you know any more Japanese than I do, please help me out! I crave correction and instruction.

_Ne_ is a tag on a confirmation-type question, like 'such-and-such is true, right?" Like the French _n'est-ce pas_?, I guess. Man, this language is tricky.

Many thanks to the answerbag(dot)com online tutorials and the japan-zone(dot)com phrase lists. Ain't the internet a beautiful thing?

Seri

* * *

Chapter 12

* * *

Gambit knew where the junkies congregated in London. He also knew where the Good Samaritan groups handed out clean needles to prevent the spread of disease.

Kneeling in a dirty alleyway, Gambit filled his syringe with the entire contents of the little stolen bottle. Then he held the needle in his teeth and wiped his arm clean with an alcohol swab.

This was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He'd taken advantage of good people. Moira MacTaggart and her team would hate him forever after this, and with good reason. He'd betrayed their trust, and thrown away in contempt all precious confidence Charles Xavier had shown in him. But he didn't care.

That wasn't true. He cared, but not enough to turn back.

He pulled the cap off the syringe and laid it carefully on the ground, then extended his clean arm and laid it on his knee. _Okay, Sinister. Let's hope you knew what you were doing. _

He guided the needle into a convenient vein, being very careful not to gasp or jump at the little sting and the answering rush of adrenalin. The compound was colder than his blood, and he could feel it rushing along his arm with a kind of creepy crawly chill. Sinister's red eyes and deadly teeth flashed in Gambit's memory. The sixteen graves haunted the air around him.

He gritted his teeth and emptied the rest of the syringe inside his arm.

It was so cold. The freeze of the drug ran down to the ends of his fingers and up into his shoulder and chest. He frantically flexed his fingers to be sure they were still working, clumsily fishing the syringe out of his elbow with his other hand. He tried to fit the cap back on, to prevent the needle from sticking someone accidentally, but his hands were too numb. His brain was too numb. It was _so cold_ . . .

The syringe dropped from his fingers as he curled himself up into as small a lump as possible. His entire body was shaking so hard it was practically convulsing.

It hadn't been like this last time. _Sinister, you filthy liar, what did you do to me?_

* * *

He woke up hours later. The sun was blazing down into the alley, gleaming off the syringe that lay in front of his nose.

He stretched—he was stiff, but not hurt. There was a little clot of dried blood on the inside of his arm. _Man_, that stuff packed a punch. From now on, cold turkey.

He was okay. Awake, mobile, sane . . . which just left one question. Had it worked?

He couldn't test it until he was far, far away. The Muir Center's Cerebro would pick him up if he tried. So the trick now was to reach the airport and jump on a flight to Japan. When he was well out of hunting range, he'd test the serum. Carefully.

* * *

Rogue was washing clothes with the novices, her sleeves wrapped up out of the way with a cord tied in a figure eight around her shoulders and across her back. Her bare arms were coated in fine suds as she leaned over the washtub, scrubbing a black monastic robe against a ribbed wooden board.

The big wooden tub was crowded with other boards, other robes, and other hands. Rogue used the rhythm of her scrubbing to help keep her focus. She could feel energy swirling through the sudsy water as she brushed up against the novices. The touches were faint, never more than a second each, but there was no telling when the next would come, so she had to be careful.

When she looked up from the tub, Daisuke was grinning at her. It was a pretty spectacular grin: he'd lost both his two front teeth, and the new ones were only pale white lines peeking through his gums. He jabbered cheerfully at her, and Rogue grinned back as she caught a few of the words.

"Yeah," she told him. "Ah'm doin' lots better. Let's just hope Ah get it exactly right before Gambit comes." She flicked a few suds in his face, then took a deep, calming breath and teasingly tapped the end of his nose. "_Domo arigato_ for helpin' me practice, Dai-chan."

She didn't realize that she'd started something until a splash of sudsy water landed straight in her eye. Hideki giggled like a lunatic and ducked behind the tub to avoid retaliation. Daisuke grabbed a handful of water and flung it after his friend, in Rogue's defense: seconds later, the air was full of flying suds and robes and the shrieks and giggles of wet, soapy novices. Rogue ducked away, laughing, staying clear of the melee. She wasn't quite sure her control was ready for a full-on wrestling match yet. Or that it ever would be.

When the energy had died down, she cheerfully helped to gather up the spilled clothes and pile them back into the tub. They'd have to scrub them all over again, but it was worth it for the burst of high spirits.

When everything was finally clean and the clothes were drying on lines strung between the buildings of the monastery, Rogue dried her arms and untied her sleeves. She tried to count out how many days it had been since she and Logan had flown down to the village. It was impossible to tell: she hadn't marked anything to keep track of passing time. Logan would remember, but she didn't want to ask him. Knowing his sadness, it felt somehow heartless to talk about Remy in front of him. How could it be fair that she, doomed to eternal loneliness, had hope blossoming in front of her while he was still trapped in a tangle of love and politics? Why was there a chance for her and not for him?

How long had it been since that phone call? Three days? Four? How long would it take Remy to reach her? He'd come—he'd promised, and she knew from harsh experience that his promise was nearly impossible to obtain and, once obtained, was unbreakable. But she didn't know where he'd called from, or how long it would take him to get from that place . . . wherever it was . . . to Hokkaido. It could be a long time yet. Or it could be today.

She flew up to the top of the hill, just to check.

The grassy mountaintop was empty of anyone but herself, and up here the unblocked wind made her hair fly everywhere. It was probably long enough to braid now, but Rogue hadn't bothered: she wanted it to be loose when she saw him again. She'd never quite understood his fascination with her hair, but if he liked it, then she'd wear it free.

For all the good it did her today. There was no one. Not yet.

* * *

Remy waited until his plane was in the air before he finally tried his test.

This way, he figured, if either he or his victim blacked out, they'd at least be seated and strapped in, and they'd have a very, very long flight ahead of them in which to recover. Being inside an airborne moving target would also make it harder for Betsy to locate him.

The passenger next to him was a middle-aged, business-suited man who'd pulled out his laptop computer as soon as the plane had leveled out. Remy wouldn't have chosen him out of a crowd as someone interesting to absorb, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

He stripped off both his gloves and tucked them into the seatback pocket. He hadn't appeared in public without gloves since he'd taken the drug. His neighbor didn't notice or care.

With all the skill of a long-trained pickpocket, Remy reached out for the can of Coke resting on his little plastic folding tray. Only someone watching very carefully would have noticed that he reached a little too far, and that the tiny brush of his knuckles against the other man's wrist wasn't as accidental as it was meant to appear.

Both of them gasped.

A flood of information poured through Remy's skin and into his body . . . this man's history, emotions, skills, knowledge, all of it rushing in like blood rushed out of a deep wound. He pulled back as fast as he could, his head already spinning.

"_Sore wa nan desu ka?_" the man demanded, but it was more an exclamation than an actual question, and it wasn't directed at Remy.

"_Sore wa turbulence desu_," Remy told him. He discreetly reached for his gloves and put them back on.

* * *

Rogue sat in front of the guest quarters, combing through her hair with her fingers. Worrying about how she looked was a sure way to ruin her focus, but she wasn't training now, so she was indulging in a good long bout of self-pity.

"You comin'?" Logan asked, emerging from the house behind her.

"Comin' where?" Rogue asked back. Her fingers were dealing with a particularly nasty snarl, and she wasn't really listening.

"The novices' dormitory lost some shingles in the storm. You helpin' out, or what?"

"In a minute." She pulled the snarl apart and set to picking out each half in turn. "Mah hair's a wreck."

"You may find this hard to believe, Stripes, but they're not too fussy about people's hair up here."

Rogue snorted. "Do you even realize how long it has been since Ah combed mah hair? Or washed it with shampoo? Remy could be showin' up here any day, and Ah look like Ah've been livin' in a cave all summer. At the Institute, Ah would _never_ come outta my room lookin' like this. Ah've got no makeup, no moisturizer, no conditioner . . . do you know how many people Ah'd kill for a bottle of leave-in conditioner right now? . . . and Ah been bitin' my nails, so don't even get me started on those. He's gonna take one look at me and just turn around and leave, Ah know it. Ah can't do anythin' about most of it, but mah hair is at least gonna be combed." She glared at Logan, preparing to snap at him the second he dared make a comment about her being superficial.

Logan just sighed and shook his head. "You really don't have a clue, do you?"

"Shut up."

"You've got no idea how gorgeous you're gettin'. What all the sunshine and the hope's been doing to you." Logan rolled his eyes. "Kid, you have never been half so worth looking at as you are this morning."

Rogue stared at him. She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and closed her mouth again. That wasn't possible. He was just being nice. Except that it was _Logan_, who didn't do 'nice' under any circumstances. "You're kiddin' me."

"I call 'em like I see 'em, Stripes. So you gonna come help me with the roof, or what?"

Rogue nodded absently. "In a minute."

Logan hmphed, but he was smiling as he left her behind and headed across the complex. Rogue kept working at the tangles in her hair, but the work was just something to keep her fingers busy while she thought about what Logan had told her.

"Azami-san! Azami-san!" Daisuke came scrambling over the crest of the hill, tripping every few steps but climbing to his feet without the slightest hesitation. In his eager, rapid chatter, Rogue caught the word _gaikokujin_ . . . a foreigner, a stranger.

"_Gaikokujin ne?_" she asked, untangling her fingers from her hair and grabbing for her shoes.

"_Hai!" _

She barely managed to yank her second shoe on her foot before she was up and running.

The mountain spread out below her as she reached the summit, the bright morning sunshine stinging cheerfully at her eyes. And there he was, walking up from the tree line, the grass stems pulling at his coat and drawing it out behind him like a cape. _Remy_. He'd really, truly come. He was right here.

Rogue felt as though she were flying, though her feet were firmly on the ground. Hot, tingling excitement went shooting under her skin, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach like it did when she went into freefall. _Remy_. It felt like they'd never been apart, like the long, hot summer of separation had only been a few hours long. But so much had changed since he'd left her in May . . . heck, _everything_ had changed since then. Except him.

She didn't know how she managed to stand still for so long. Every cell in her body screamed to be close to him. So she ran . . . not through the air, like a mutant, but with her feet pounding against the dirt, like an ordinary, human teenage girl with as much right to love and be loved as any other girl on earth. She just ran, faster than was safe on such a steep slope, keeping her balance more through luck than through skill, half-frantic to not wait one more second to be with him.

Remy would have run to her, too, if he could. But it was too wonderful to watch her come rushing down the slope, skipping when the ground slithered out from under her feet, her hair blowing out behind her in glorious gleaming waves, bright and shining in exactly the color of a new-minted penny. His Rogue, his own precious girl, alive and unhurt and running to him with her whole face shining with joy.

Then she was in his arms, and the entire world was completely perfect.

There were new scents all over him now. Rogue wrapped her arms around his chest and buried her face against his shirt, assuring herself that he was really there. There was a strange, bitter odor about him—a lingering trace of death and regret—but under that, he still smelled of himself, warm and spicy and dark. She took a deep breath and let it out in one wordless hum of joy and satisfaction, too happy to speak.

She smelled of sunshine and incense. Remy held her so tight that any girl without super-powers would have had trouble breathing, feeling her tough, combat-trained body melt into warm softness that fit perfectly against him. He let his gloved fingers wander up the fascinating curves of the back of her neck, savoring the shape of them, claiming this caress as his own particular privilege. Any other man on earth would have won himself a broken arm for touching her so, but when he did it she just sighed with happiness and bent her head down, pressing back against his fingertips, identifying him more through touch than through words.

No more fighting, no more being brave. Remy was here. Rogue felt her worries and responsibilities drifting away from her, leaving her light as a feather, warm and safe, with Remy to protect her. She could be helpless if she wanted to; she could let her guard down and finally rest. Remy was strong and clever, and he loved her. He'd protect her from anything . . . even sadness, even sorrow. All her work, her practice, her training . . . it if meant she could really stay with him forever, then it was all more than worth the effort.

Even her fear of her powers melted away. She'd been worried that being close to him would destroy her focus, but now that she'd come she knew that the opposite was true. Feeling like this, light and free and joyful, would make her control even easier. She could do anything when he was with her.

Thief or X-Man, hero or traitor, saint or liar . . . the labels and the debates ceased to matter. Remy knew who and what he was. He was himself, and Rogue loved him, and that was more than enough. To have earned the love of a girl like this, fierce and solitary and passionate, made all other titles and achievements look trivial. He defied anyone else in the world to steal the heart of such a woman. No one else could. No one else ever would. Not now that they could stay together forever, Rogue and Remy, two halves of one interwoven soul.

It was impossible to tell who kissed whom first. All Remy knew was that without more than a split second of warning, he found her lips pressed against his for only the fourth time in their lives. She tasted so good that most of his conscious thought simply shut down, overwhelmed with how delicious she was, how warm, how achingly soft. Her essence poured into him, as it had once before . . . all her fear, her defiance, her surreptitious, almost guilty hopes and dreams became part of him again, as they should be. It was difficult to tell how much of the exultation in the kiss belonged to him, and how much to her—she'd been as determined as he was to feel this again. They'd won. They could spit in they eye of everything and everyone that had decreed they could never be together.

She was getting dizzy . . . she understood now why girls fainted when someone kissed them. Her knees buckled under her, but she hung on around his neck, determined to never, never let go of this intolerably wonderful feeling . . . she never had to, because she was doing it, controlling the energy, holding her powers at bay. She couldn't feel his mind at all. And this dizziness, this weakness, this was how a simple human kiss must feel . . . everyone had told her she couldn't have this, and she had it, and she would keep it forever.

But it hurt . . . it was worth it, she could bear it, but it kept getting worse, burning her up . . .

He was full to bursting with energy, and the kiss was losing its sweetness in a sudden dread, because something was wrong. There was too much inside his head. She wasn't drawing off his energy; he was becoming both of them at once, and she was fading into nothing. In a heartbeat, her lips dropped from deliciously warm to cold as ice, and the arms around his neck went slack.

Too late, Remy pushed her away. Her limp form crumpled to the ground, too fast for him to catch, and lay unmoving, with one white streak of hair falling unheeded across her ashy blue-gray cheek.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

* * *

Logan was on the roof of the novice's dormitory. He'd fixed it. It shouldn't be leaking. The fact that it was he took as a personal insult. So he was going to take the structure apart and put it back together if he had to in order to find where the water was getting in. And this time, the tiles were _staying down_.

And then he heard a raised voice.

Nobody at the monastery ever raised his voice. It wasn't done. So anyone yelling meant either an outsider or an emergency . . . or both.

Logan jumped off the roof, landed on the path in a crouch, and took off like a sprinter from the blocks. He made it to the crest of the hill in record time, even jumping over Daisuke, who'd been running back to the monastery.

He could only see Gambit, on his knees in the long grass, but the wind brought Rogue's scent to him. She smelled wrong. He ran faster.

Why wasn't Gambit helping her? He should have been opening her airway, checking for a pulse . . . the Swamp Rat knew this stuff; Logan had drilled him on it a dozen times and Remy was less likely to panic and forget his training than any student at the Institute. Why wouldn't he touch her?

"Azami?" Logan demanded, checking his speed in the last few yards and dropping to his knees next to Rogue's unconscious form. He pressed the palm of his hand against her cheek: if she was unconscious, then she wouldn't be able to stop from absorbing his powers, and anything wrong with her would fix itself.

Her skin was cold and inert.

"I just touched her . . ." Remy murmured, his voice strained with shock. "I didn't mean t'hurt her, I just touched her . . ."

"Shut up a minute," Logan ordered. He moved his hand to Rogue's other cheek, then to her face, the way someone would keep flicking a light switch even though the bulb was burned out. "She's not absorbin'," he snarled.

"She ain't breathin'," Remy told him.

Logan pulled Rogue's head back, craning her neck unnaturally and lifting her chin to open up her airway. Plugging her nose, he bent his face to hers and forced air into her lungs.

When he inhaled for another breath, he caught a new scent off Remy, mingling with the acrid scent of fear: jealousy. Unreasonable and inappropriate, yes, but Logan knew better than anybody that some things were just instinct. But Remy wisely didn't say anything, and Logan forced another breath into her.

She exhaled it back at him, then inhaled on her own. Logan sat back on his heels, panting in relief. "There she goes. It was just the shock. Her airway got blocked off when she fell." He started tapping her cheeks, gently at first, then harder. "Come on, Aza-chan, wake up. Come on, darlin'. You're scarin' us." His teeth locked together in a snarl, a threat to any god or demon that would dare hurt his girl. "Why won't she absorb me?"

"I absorbed her," Remy admitted. "I dunno how much I took. A lot."

It was one of Logan's great strengths that he could skip straight over the how and why of most emergency situations and go straight to the what-are-we-going-to-do-about-it stage. They didn't have time right now to make the Cajun explain just what in blazes he had been getting himself up to. "Can you still hear her? In your head?"

"_Ouais_."

"Okay. That's good. If you'd absorbed more than you could handle, your subconscious would be blocking her. Feeling okay otherwise?"

"Mah head's splittin', but Ah kin work through it." He was speaking broad Mississippi now.

"Good. Get down to the village, call the house, tell them to send the jet. I'll give 'em a signal to follow."

"_Hai_." Remy jumped up and ran.

"_Fly_, you idiot!"

Remy kicked off the ground and dove headfirst into the wind.

"Xavier Instute, Hank McCoy speaking."

"Beast, Rogue's hurt. Logan's with her, and he's givin' Cerebro a signal. Get de jet out here _now_."

Hank was already moving, his heavy tread shaking the house with every leap. "We're on our way, Gambit," he assured him, not even out of breath though he was covering ground faster than any human could have done. "Hold on."

"_Venez vite. Elle meurt._" The line went dead.

Hank let the phone drop to the floor behind him and shouted, his voice grating into a snarl of determination. "Storm! Jean! Not a drill!"

The two women were at his side almost in a second, their shoes making a staccato counterpoint to his own heavy footfalls. As the three of them sprinted down the long underground corridor to the X-Jet's hangar, Jean opened up a telepathic link among the three of them—a psychic chatroom that stretched to include Professor Xavier. She'd been working on this in her training over the last few months, and it seemed to have been sinking in.

_Gambit thinks she's dying_, Hank informed them, his mental voice grim.

_I _knew_ we should have checked up on them sooner,_ Jean snapped.

_Focus,_ Storm chided her.

_Professor, you're going to have to unlock Cerebro so I can track them._

_I'm doing it now. You'll have full access by the time you reach the plane. They're in northern Japan._

_Japan? That's going to take us forever!_

_Logan will keep the situation under control until you can reach him. Just hurry._

Storm made a strange, determined sound inside her head: not words, but a faint suggestion of a hurricane-force wind pushing the X-Jet at record speeds over the Pacific.

_Be careful_, the Professor warned her, but he didn't forbid the plan.

They had the jet powered up in record time. Jean took the pilot's seat, Hank the co-pilot's. Storm took a stance in the middle of the floor, ready to help the engines along as soon as they were airborne and pointed in the right direction.

"If we push her to full speed, it should take us about three hours to hit the general area," Hank announced. He shoved the throttle forward, and the Blackbird roared along its underground runway and went ripping into the sky.

Jean pulled the helmet of the portable Cerebro out from its housing under the control panel. "He said there'd be a signal, right?" she asked, fitting the contraption over her head and flipping the activation switches.

"That's what he said."

"Well, here we go." She closed her eyes and engaged the mental controls. _Logan, Rogue, Gambit . . . come on, you guys, give me something to work with here. _

There was a faint flare that died out almost immediately. Then it glowed again, and faded, and glowed, becoming a little blinking light in her mind. It was Logan.

"I got him," she announced. "Northern Japan, just like the Professor said."

"Can you see Rogue?" Storm asked.

Jean bit her lip. "I'm not sure. There's _something_ . . . but it's all jumbled up and blurry. I don't know _who_ that is. But Logan's using his powers every few seconds, so I can see him really clearly. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was . . ." She trailed off and changed her mind. "No, I know exactly what he's doing."

Three hours later, she was proved exactly right.

Cerebro guided them to an open mountaintop, just above a cluster of long, red-roofed buildings. Jean and Storm jumped from the plane while it was still fifty feet up, leaving Hank to manage the ever-tricky vertical landing while they assessed the situation on the ground. Even from the air, Jean could see that her suspicions were correct: Logan's left hand was slathered with blood. He'd been extending and retracting his claws, making his hand heal over and over again to give her a signal to follow. His body didn't seem to have been able to keep up with the abuse.

Rogue lay on the grass, still unconscious, dressed in an off-white canvas outfit like the _gi _they sometimes worked out in at the Institute. Her head was in Gambit's lap. The pair were surrounded by black-robed Buddhist monks, the youngest of whom was industriously dabbing at Rogue's forehead with a wet cloth.

Though Rogue was the one they'd come to save, Jean dropped herself straight in front of Logan, throwing her arms around his neck before her feet even touched the ground. "Oh, _Logan_, you stupid . . ."

"Missed you, too, Red," he told her, gently returning her embrace. "But right now you've got to tell us what's happened to Rogue. She's countin' on you, darlin'."

"Her pulse is strong," Storm announced, pressing her fingers into Rogue's throat. She coaxed open one eyelid and sparked a tiny bolt of lightning between the fingers of her free hand. "But her pupils aren't dilating."

"And she's not absorbing," Logan told her.

Jean dropped to her knees next to Gambit and closed her eyes. "Oh, my gosh," she breathed. "I, um . . . I have no idea how to explain to you guys what I'm seeing. Or sort of not kind of seeing." Her eyes snapped open and she looked up at Logan and Storm. "I don't think she's stable. Her head's a mess. Let's get her in the plane."

She climbed to her feet, expecting Gambit to pick up Rogue—it wasn't the sort of task he normally let anyone else have. But he just laid her head on the ground and backed away. Storm picked Rogue up.

Logan was speaking Japanese with the oldest of the monks. Jean tapped in, coaxing a translation out of Logan's brain.

_"Thank you again, Sensei. You have done so much for us."_

_"You are our friends, Rogan-kun, and you are always welcome here. Please send us word of Azami's condition. Daisuke will want to know that she's all right."_

_"We're gonna do everything we can for her. I'll keep you updated."_

_"And with your own struggles . . . may you have the strength and insight to overcome them."_

_"I hope that may be too, Sensei._"

They bowed to one another, Logan's bow deeper than Seiji's by quite a large margin. Then Logan turned back to the plane, all business. "Come on, come on, let's go. Gumbo, go get my bike and catch us up. Gun it, Hank! Red, get the lead out."

Jean obediently ran for the open loading hatch of the Blackbird. It took off before she reached it, and she had to levitate the last few feet to make it inside. "What about Gambit?"

"He's comin'. Leave the hatch open."

Gambit caught up with them before the X-Jet made it onto the open ocean, towing the blue Harley with one hand. Storm, now flying the plane, closed up the hatch.

"Let's start at the beginning, shall we?" Hank suggested. He had Rogue on the X-Jet's skinny but serviceable emergency exam table, fitting a heart rate monitor onto her finger.

"I stole a drug dat made me into a leech, like Rogue," Gambit announced, very wisely not wasting time with shame or apologies. 'Later' would be soon enough for that.

"Rogue's been working on focusing and breathing techniques to control her powers," Logan offered. "One thing led to another . . ."

"And now Rogue's unconscious and Gambit's airborne," Hank finished for him. "I see the problem. How long ago did you touch her?"

Gambit checked his watch. "Three hours, forty minutes."

"And you're still flying."

"_Ouais._"

"That's not good."

"But on the other hand," Logan pointed out, "the only time we've ever seen a permanent absorption, Rogue's mind blocked off the memories and powers she took. The fact that he's flying at all could mean she'll come out of it."

"We don't have enough data. We have no idea _what's _going to happen. All we can do is monitor her vitals and let Jean and the Professor do what they can."

Jean put her hands on either side of Rogue's head and closed her eyes. She was the psychic; this was her job. "I'm . . ." She struggled to articulate what she saw, knowing that she had to give Hank any information she could find. "I'm not sure what's in here is even Rogue. It doesn't feel like her. It doesn't look like a person at all . . . but that could just be the coma. But there are memories . . . I don't recognize them, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything one way or another."

"Coma patients usually settle into a set level of psychic activity and hold there," Hank offered. "Does it look like that's what's happening?"

"No way. There's energy leaping all over the place."

"Okay. Take a look at Gambit."

Jean opened her eyes and glanced up, first at Hank and then at Gambit. The Cajun's psychic shields were as impenetrable as ever.

"Let her in, Gumbo," Logan ordered. "Whatever she sees in there, it ain't worth Rogue's life."

"I just want to see what's going on with the powers you absorbed," Jean told him. "I promise I won't look any farther."

Silently, Gambit nodded his consent. His mind faded into visibility, and Jean hesitantly reached inside.

"It looks just like Rogue's normal absorption," she murmured, her eyes drifting shut in concentration. "There's a good, thorough copy of her in here, but it's fading. You're lucky you got into the plane when you did, Gambit. I don't think you'll be flying much longer." She opened her eyes and broke the connection. "Rogue might wake up once the powers fade. We'll have to wait and see. You look like a normal absorber, but she doesn't look like a normal victim. But at least we can be fairly sure that you're going to be okay."

"Hallelujah," Gambit deadpanned.

"You shot yourself up on a stolen and, in all likelihood, highly experimental and illegal drug," Hank told him. "You're lucky to be alive, much less to be functioning normally with a brand new Alpha-level power."

"Which may have just killed Rogue."

"Well, if she's not dead yet, she's probably not going to die of this," Hank offered. "I don't know what she _is_ going to do, but 'die' is probably not it. Rogue's made of tougher stuff."

"Usually, she is," Logan qualified. "Usually, she can't be knocked out by a freight train, but there she lies."

"We're going to keep her breathing, and she'll come out of this," Hank insisted. "By the way, Logan, good to see you back."

"Nice to be back. We still a non-smoking airline?"

"Yes, we are."

* * *

Gambit haunted the infirmary like a restless spirit. Though his bedroom hadn't been touched since he left, he never set foot in it. He couldn't stand it. Even walking upstairs to the main floor made him crazy. If Rogue stopped breathing . . .

He didn't dare touch her. Not even to brush her hair out of her face . . . the hair she'd grown long because he'd asked her to. It had been so different to touch her when _she'd_ been the one with the powers. It was easy to tempt fate when _he _was the one who'd suffer for any mistakes. But when her life was so fragile, and his skin so dangerous . . .

_I am Death. Everyone I touch dies._

Couldn't come too close. Couldn't stray too far.

He'd done this to her.

_What can you steal, Master thief? Money, jewels, weapons, power, information? Can you steal healing? Can you steal time? Can you steal miracles, or love?_

_Rogue is a fighter. Can she fight Death?_

Shadows seemed to follow him, growing clearer and clearer the longer he went without real sleep. There was Sinister, calm and smug, holding Gambit's discarded needle; there was Belladonna, her curse still ringing in the air. _I hope you love her_. There was Julian, avenged at last; there was Mystique, angry but unreadable, ever hunting, ever planning.

"Please, Gambit, get some rest." Hank—Hank was real. "I don't need two patients down here. You have to sleep."

"Can't sleep."

"I can give you a sedative."

"I had enough drugs, t'anks."

"Then at least get out of the infirmary. You're taking up valuable space and oxygen."

Gambit flicked a card from his pocket and charged it. "Make me."

Hank didn't press the issue. Smart guy.

* * *

"He still won't eat," Jean sighed, tossing dishes haphazardly in the sink. Logan caught a plate before it could hit the floor.

"He'll eat when he's ready," he told her, gently sliding the dish into the hot, sudsy water where everything else was soaking. "He's got a lot to deal with right now. His decisions hurt the person he loves. In his place, I wouldn't be eating either."

She was too close to him; his blood raced through his veins and burned under his skin. But he didn't move away. He could bear it. He was the Wolverine: he was born to suffer pain for the sake of the people he loved. It was his mutation; it was his role. He could bear it.

Jean sighed. "I just wish there was something more I could do for him." She left the sink to be dealt with later and turned to lean back against the counter. "But _you_ seem to have had a good summer, at least."

Logan nodded. "I learned a lot."

"I'm glad."

Logan eyed her and smiled. "You're doin' real well on the self-control thing. Been practicing?"

Jean laughed. "Not really. I'm dying to start interrogating you, but I just don't even know where to start. You went half-crazy, ran away from home, dragged Rogue to the other side of the world, worried me half to death, and now . . ." She rolled her eyes. "Now Rogue is unconscious downstairs, Gambit's starving himself to death, and you're in the kitchen washing dishes. Really, where do I start?"

Logan smiled at her. "I did miss you, Jeannie."

She smiled back. "I missed you, too. A lot. And I'm glad you found what you were looking for."

"Well, I wouldn't say that. Not yet."

* * *

Rogue's coma lasted for three days. Gambit was there when she woke up. He was unshaven and slightly dazed, but he was as quick as ever, at her bedside the moment her heart monitor sped up.

He didn't dare touch her, but he had to see her.

Hank and Logan were both in the infirmary as well, but they kept their distance, discreetly watching the monitoring equipment and letting Gambit claim the space at Rogue's head. In his current mood, it wasn't unlikely that he'd lash out at anyone else who tried to come close to her.

"Rogue?" He bowed his head to hers, searching her closed eyes for the slightest sign of movement. "_Reviens, ma chère. Reveil-toi. Je suis revenu, comme j'ai promis, et maintenant c'est à toi. Je suis ici. Je t'attends._"

Her eyes eased open. They were more green than gray now, as green as the stone she wore against her finger. She blinked twice, her pupils dilating as they adjusted to the light of the infirmary. She took one quick breath, breaking the steady, automatic rhythm of her sleep and sending a shudder of wakefulness through her whole body.

Then she looked straight up at Gambit and demanded, "Where the hell am I?"

* * *

Author's Notes:

Yes, we've moved them to the bottom again.

More French than Japanese this time around! _Venez vite, elle meurt _is 'come quickly, she's dying.'

And the third paragraph from the bottom translates as follows:

"Come back, _chère_. Wake up. I came back, like I promised, and now it's your turn. I'm right here. I'm waiting for you."

And now, since it is freezing in my house and my fingers are going numb, I'm going to curl up on my couch with four blankets and a dog and watch _Smallville_. That's my master plan for the day, since I can barely type anymore.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

* * *

It wasn't Rogue's voice. It was, but it wasn't . . . her soothing drawl was suddenly clipped into sharp Midwestern vowels. The eyes were her eyes, gray-green, but the expression in them was direct and blunt as Rogue's eyes could never be. There was a strange, warm undercurrent in her scent, as though Rogue's body were responding to thoughts and emotions it had never been called upon to handle before. Logan had never before known that body and soul had different scents. He'd never had occasion to learn it.

No two women ever smelled alike to him. And the body that had collapsed in Japan belonging to Rogue had awakened in New York belonging to someone else. Logan knew. He always knew.

"Who are you?" he demanded, staring straight through Rogue's eyes at whatever was looking through them.

The stranger's eyes blazed defiantly at him, and her jaw set as she braced herself. Even lying on her back in a hospital bed, she still managed to make it clear that she wasn't going to let him scare her. "Carol Susan Danvers, second lieutenant, three seven five three one four four seven."

_Carol Susan Danvers. _Rogue's Carol. That's what that warmth was in her scent: she smelled like a blonde. "Where in the name of all that's holy did you come from?"

"Carol Susan Danvers, second lieutenant, three seven five three one four four seven," she repeated, snapping her mouth shut after the last number.

Logan sighed. Yelling at her wasn't helping. "At ease, Lieutenant. You're nobody's prisoner. Not anymore, at least. Just sit up and calm down." They couldn't afford to have her panic; she could hurt Rogue. Heck, she could hurt all of them if she decided to.

Her eyes darting suspiciously between Logan and Gambit, she shoved herself up so she was sitting against the headboard. "Where am I?" she demanded. "What happened to me? How did I get here?"

"That's what we'd all like to know, but panicking ain't gonna help anything."

"_J'n'comprends pas_," Gambit insisted, his eyes flaring scarlet with stress. "Where's Rogue?"

"Let's deal with one problem at a time, okay, Cajun?" Logan suggested calmly. "Somebody'd better tell the Professor. We're gonna need his help."

"_Elle est qui, elle_?" Gambit demanded.

"I think," Logan told him, with one deep sigh for the exquisite difficulty of life in general, "that she's Rogue's nightmare. The blonde woman who was dying."

"Rogue," repeated the person who was not Rogue. "I know that name. I know her."

"You'd better, 'cause you're sitting in her skin right now."

She glanced down at herself, then yanked off her gloves to see her hands and seized handfuls of her heavy, curly red hair. "What happened to me?"

"Short answer? You died."

"I _died_?"

"At least, it looks like that was the plan. What seems to have happened is that you woke up in the wrong body."

"How did I get here?"

"Well, that's the question."

"_Non_," Gambit snapped. "De question is _Where's Rogue?_"

Carol turned Rogue's head and looked at him. "I think I know you, too," she observed, pursing her lips as she tried to remember. "I flew with you."

Gambit managed a twitch of a smile, but it wasn't a friendly smile. "I appreciate de compliment, ma'am, but I don't fly wid just anybody."

* * *

A meeting was convened in Professor Xavier's office.

In attendance were Professor Xavier himself, Beast, Wolverine, Gambit, and the person who was undeniably not Rogue. She was wearing a pair of Rogue's most conservative jeans and a plain, pale blue t-shirt that no one remembered Rogue owning. Short sleeves, no gloves, hair tied matter-of-factly at the base of her neck. It was like a new actress had taken over Rogue's part in the surrealist play that their lives had become, but she wasn't doing justice to the role.

Gambit hated her. He couldn't help it. He knew that this mess was much more his fault than hers, knew that she had suffered horribly, knew that she didn't want to be in that body, but none of it mattered. She wasn't Rogue, and her very presence was hurting Rogue, and that was more than enough for him to hate. He could hardly stand to look at her, but at the same time he couldn't bring himself to leave any room that she was in. Rogue was in danger, somewhere inside, and he had to be nearby to help when the opportunity came. He remembered how she'd screamed when this Carol had taken over her mind—that fierce, grating, primal shriek of soul-ripping agony. The memory made his blood run cold. And somewhere inside that body, she was shrieking to get out. He couldn't turn his back on her now.

"I don't remember very much," Carol informed the assembled group. "The last thing that's really clear is being on the base, and seeing this girl," she gestured rather uncomfortably to the body she wore, "and her mother walking toward me. I took her hand . . ." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Then everything's a bit of a mess. There are bits and fragments . . . I remember lying by a fire, waking up in straw, something about a train, a boxcar . . ."

Gambit pressed his tongue between his teeth and bit down to keep himself from snarling. Those memories were private. They belonged to him and to Rogue.

"Then there's a really clear one of flying over a coast road, and after that . . . everything goes dark. For a long time."

"That will be the psychic blocks I placed in Rogue's mind after her breakdown," Professor Xavier added. "I couldn't think of any other way to keep her safe. The two minds were too much for her system to handle. You would both have died if I hadn't acted."

"I'm not blaming you, sir," Carol assured him. "But after that, the next thing I remember is talking to Rogue."

"She told me she had a dream about you," Logan put in. "She'd been working all summer to get control of her powers and break down the psychic blocks. She felt she owed it to you to remember what she'd done."

"Well," Carol sighed, "I appreciate the thought. Then I woke up in your infirmary and here I am. In a manner of speaking."

"With Rogue's personality displaced into her own subconscious," said Professor Xavier. "The shock of Gambit's attack—"

"I didn' _attack_ her," Gambit snapped.

"I apologize for my choice of words. When she was absorbed, the strain broke down the blocks that she'd already weakened. Carol's personality was released, and she took over."

"Another poor choice of words," Carol protested. "I didn't mean to."

"Can we stop wasting breath on whose fault this is?" Logan requested. "It's Mystique's fault. So now that we've got that settled, how are we going to get Rogue back?"

"Whatever we're going to do, we'd better do it quickly," Hank added. "Rogue's psychic markers are fading. Her genetic sequence is in flux. If we don't have this matter resolved within the next three days, I can't make any guarantee there'll be a Rogue for us to get back at all."

"I don't know if this is important right now," Carol interjected, "but does anyone here know what happened to my body? My _own_ body?"

The Professor took that one. "Yes. It's in long-term intensive care at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida. You're comatose, and you have been for over a year."

Carol raised her . . . Rogue's . . . eyebrows. "That's impressive. I thought the Air Force would have pulled the plug on me long before this. I must be more valuable than I thought."

"They had some encouragement," Xavier admitted. "I didn't want to let your body die while there was still a chance, however slim, of returning your mind to it."

"Then let's go to Florida! The sooner I get back into my own body, the happier I'll be."

"And how do you figure on getting into it?" Logan asked. "Jumping?"

"You . . . you have psychics here. Surely they can do it."

The Professor shook his head. "If I could, I would have, a long time ago. It simply doesn't work that way. Rogue's absorbing ability is primarily physical, and thus not something I can control or duplicate."

Gambit spoke up, but he didn't move from his sprawled posture across half of the sofa, as though this whole conversation were deeply boring. "It can be duplicated. Wid drugs."

"Gambit, even if we had more of whatever it is that you took, I don't think it would be the best solution. We have enough leeches already. And I don't want to burden Carol with that permanent ability unless we absolutely have to."

"Wouldn't have to. Dey's a temporary serum. Well-tested, effective. I've taken it before. If we implanted Rogue's ability in Carol's body, it could absorb Carol back where she came from."

"And what if Rogue got absorbed, too?" Hank demanded. "What if the personality transfer isn't permanent?"

"What if the sky falls and we all forget to wear our helmets?" Logan asked. "Rogue's dying, and I haven't heard a better idea for saving her so far. If this drug has a chance of working, let's go for it."

Gambit sighed and sat up. "Dat's gonna be de trick."

"Why? Where is this drug?"

"Muir Island."

"With Moira?" asked Professor Xavier. "It's a long way, but the Jet can certainly make the trip in plenty of time. I'll call."

"Dat's not de problem. De problem is dat Dr. MacTaggart may not take y'call. She's gonna be a bit out of humor wid me right now."

Everyone stared at him.

"And what, pray tell," Hank asked at last, "did you do to infuriate such a fair-minded and sympathetic scientist?"

Gambit took a deep breath, sat up perfectly straight, and looked Professor Xavier straight in the eye. _Remember you are a thief. You take responsibility for your own actions and you never let yourself be ashamed of what you are. _"I broke into her lab and stole the drug I used t'give myself Rogue's powers. She'd forbidden me t'touch de stuff. I took it anyway."

Silence stretched through the room, like rubber bands ready to snap. Remy gritted his teeth and refused to flinch, to back down. _I am a thief. What's done is done._

"Oh, Gambit, you foolish boy," Hank sighed, shaking his head. "What on earth possessed you to do something so stupid?"

"I vouched for you to her," Xavier told him, and the soft, sad words landed on Remy like strokes of a whip. "I assured her that I trusted you and that she needed have no qualms about inviting you into her home. What you have done reflects upon me, and upon the Institute. Moira and Sean have been my friends for decades, and the Muir Island Research Center has been our ally from the instant both establishments were founded. Your one foolish decision may have destroyed all of that."

"I did it for Rogue."

"For Rogue, you insulted and alienated the only people who could help us?" Carol asked, her voice flat with sarcasm. "I'm sure she appreciates it."

"_Ferme-la_," Gambit snapped at her. "An' would it kill you t'put on some sleeves? Dat ain't your body t'be showin' off."

"Cajun, if you don't shut your mouth, I will shut it for you," Logan snarled.

"I need to call Moira." The Professor pulled his chair back from the conference circle and headed for the phone on his desk. "Could I have the room, please?"

Everyone else stood up and left the office.

Logan snagged Gambit by the coat sleeve on the way out the door. "Get out of the house, Gumbo," he ordered. "Just for today. You're not fit for company, and that call's gonna be awkward enough without the Professor having to make it while you're still under his roof."

Gambit's gaze flicked to Carol, who was watching them both with wary, suspicious eyes.

"We'll keep an eye on her. Go on; get out."

Gambit went.

* * *

He was in Manhattan three hours later, recovering his bike from the high-security no-questions-asked garage where he'd left it. It had taken him a long time to hitch rides all the way down here, but he didn't feel like going straight back. He didn't want to stay away from Rogue, but he also didn't want to have to hear how that phone call ended up going.

He found a pay phone.

"_Voilà _Bobby, leave a message."

"Bobby, it's me. Pick up." He hung up the phone, waited thirty seconds, and called again.

This time, it was answered on the first ring. "_'Allo?_"

Over the phone line, Remy could hear his father's voice. "_Qui est?_"

"_Personne. _Just a sec."

Remy sighed. If that didn't add insult to injury, discovering on today of all days that your family's code name for you was 'nobody.' Well, at least he _had_ a code name. It was better than making Bobby lie.

He heard the creak of the screen door as Bobby headed outside. "Hey_, DB_. What's up in de world of N'Awlins' very own Master-T'ief-in-trainin?"

"Oh, nothin' much," Remy sighed, leaning back against the side of the phone booth. "Just brought my life crashin' down around my ears."

"So . . . business as usual, huh?"

"Yeah, pretty much." In as few words as possible, Remy summarized the mess he'd made. Bobby listened to the whole thing, not saying anything beyond the occasional noise to let Remy know he was still listening. Remy could hear the creak of the porch swing.

Finally, Bobby concluded, "You screwed up big time, little brother."

"I know."

"Don'you know better dan t'steal from somebody dat took y'in outta de rain?"

"I do. I wasn't t'inkin' straight."

"No kiddin'."

"T'anks for de sympathy, Bobby. I feel loads better. So glad I got family t'turn to in my hour'a need."

"What'd you want me to tell you, Remy? Dat I'm worried? 'Course I'm worried—Rogue's like my sister. But you're gonna have to suck it up now, an' you know it. Beg if you have to. Your bullheadedness got you both inta dis mess, and no amount'a t'ievin' or pride is gonna get you out."

"Yeah, I know.

"And don't you forget about the Guilds, either. Whether you like it or not, you're still on de hunt for your Mark, and if you stay wid Rogue too long people are gonna start to ask questions. You're global news, _mon frère_. You've declared, an'dey's no backin' out now. Master T'ief ain't somethin' you quit."

"_Je le sais_. I jus'can't go 'till I know she's gonna be all right."

"Just be careful. An'take good care of dat girl. Lan'knows y'ain't de only one dat cares about her. _Memère_ already likes her better'n she likes you."

Against his better judgment, Gambit laughed. "Someday, when dis is all over, y'all are gonna have t'come up to New York an' meet de folks."

"I appreciate de invitation, _DB_, but I dunno what Marius would have t'say about dat." He paused, then announced, "_Père_'s callin'. I gotta go."

"Yeah. I'm runnin' outta quarters up here anyway."

"We'll be prayin' fo' ya. _Don't_ you roll yo'eyes at me."

"I ain't," said Remy, who was.

"Liar. Take care, _mon gar_. Watch yo'step."

* * *

Storm found Carol sitting on the roof of the house. "I rather thought I might find you up here," she observed, setting herself down gently on the tiles. "Rogue retreats here, too, when she's upset. So do I. Perhaps we who are airborne are never truly comfortable with roofs and walls."

Carol smiled at her. It was a strange expression on Rogue's mouth—it didn't quite match. "Maybe you're right. I do always feel a little safer with the sky over my head. But I just wanted to come up here to . . . breathe, I guess. Spending a year trapped in someone else's mind really makes you appreciate the virtues of having physical form. Breathing's at the top of the list. Blinking. Having hands." She held her hands up in front of her face, staring at them, then let them fall on her knees with a little sighing chuckle. "I just wish I could be experiencing it without it being at someone else's expense."

"I hear that soon you will be back in your own body," Storm assured her. "And you will both be fine."

"That's the theory." Carol leaned back and stuck her legs out in front of her, crossing her ankles. "But from what I understand, even if we _do_ get the drug we're after, any number of things could still go wrong."

"They will not. Rogue is very strong, and so, it seems, are you. Jean and Professor Xavier are both powerful and competent telepaths, and Doctor MacTaggart is one of the best geneticists in the world. We have a better chance than anyone of making this work correctly."

"And if it does work correctly, what then? My body, lying unoccupied in that hospital bed for more than a year . . . this poor girl's awful powers . . ." She shook her head, the ponytail swinging across her back. "I just can't shake the feeling that this might be the last day of my life when I can fly."

Storm put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Then fly," she ordered gently. "Rogue will not mind."

"Me flying in her body? Why would she mind that? She'd be thrilled!"

"I trained her to fly, when first she acquired the ability. She was happier, and calmer, when she was in the air than she was anywhere else . . . except perhaps with Gambit." Storm smiled. "But I think Rogue would rather you fly."

"I think he'd rather that, too." Carol laughed. "His _eyes_! If looks could kill . . ." She rubbed one hand uncomfortably against the opposite arm. Though she hadn't conceded to Gambit's order to cover the body she occupied, Storm could see that his attack had stung her.

"When you are safely in your own body, Gambit will bear you no ill will. He does not bear grudges, talented though he may be at making others bear them against him. Don't concern yourself with Gambit. We are a strong team, and we take care of our own. You have not been in the air, where you belong, for more than a year. _Go._"

An astonishingly powerful gust of wind came whipping across the roof, ruffling Storm's hair and pitching Carol headlong into the sky.

If she was to have only this brief moment, it should at least be a good moment.

* * *

"Please, Moira—"

"I don't understand how ye even worked up the gall to call me, Charles. Your student broke into my laboratory and stole an impossibly dangerous serum. He's made himself powerful enough to destroy the world. He's nearly killed your Rogue. How could you have let this happen?"

"Yes, his actions were wrong. But we're setting that aside for now, and focusing on Rogue and Carol."

"You can't _set aside_ the fact that you have in your house a career criminal potentially more powerful than your entire team!"

"To save Rogue's life, I will set aside quite a bit. Gambit's not dangerous to himself or anyone else right now. He's devastated at what he's done. But however ill-advised his actions, they've given us the opportunity to save a life I'd all but given up for lost. Please, Moira. I need your help. And if you wish me to pay for that help by throwing Gambit out of the Institute, neither he nor I will have the smallest objection."

Moira made a sound that was part sigh, part snort, part snarl, all frustrated Scotswoman. "For Rogue's sake, and yours, Charles, I'll come. We can talk about Gambit when I get there."

"I'll send the jet for you. Thank you so much, Moira."

"Don't thank me just yet." She cut the connection.

* * *

Carol stayed in the air a long time. It wasn't just the joy of flying again—though Storm had been right; she needed it. It was dread of going back into that strange house. She'd stolen someone's whole life right out from under her. Of course, Rogue had done the same to her, but that didn't make them even. How could two women who had never met manage to hurt one another so much?

She'd been out for more than a year. The attack had come in April; it was now the next September. What about her parents? Her brothers? Her C.O.? Her apartment? The projects she'd been working on, the birthday parties she'd been looking forward to? Her _fish_?

No one would have thought to feed her fish. Nobody worried about fish when their owner fell into an unexplained coma. If she got out of this thing, she was writing a living will that included provisions for her pets.

She was flying above New York in a body that she'd stolen against her will after a year and a half of oblivion, and she was worried about her fish. Life just got funnier and funnier.

Reluctantly, she altered her course and headed back the way she'd come. If she didn't stay close to the house, the red-eyed Cajun would probably hijack an airplane to come after her.

The second floor of the house was divided into a girls' wing and a boys' wing. Since there were more male students than female, the girls' wing had a few empty rooms, one of which had been set aside for her use 'while she was with them.' But Carol didn't head for it. The body she occupied went automatically to one of the first doors on the hallway, and she let it go, following its habit. She'd been in here before, to find something to wear, but she'd left as quickly as she could. She was invading someone's privacy.

This was Rogue's room. It was easy to tell what part of the space belonged to which roommate: all of Kitty's things were pastel, and all Rogue's were dark, in forest green or navy blue or burgundy or gray. Feeling like a criminal, Carol drifted to the dressing table, where a few framed photographs rested among the cosmetics and hairbrushes. There was a picture of Rogue, with a couple of her classmates, laughing at an amusement park; one of the entire team next to a Christmas tree; one of Rogue and Gambit, oblivious to the camera, standing in the gazebo in the late afternoon with their eyes silently fixed on one another. Whoever had taken the picture knew them well, and had a good photographic eye—it was more art than snapshot.

After studying the picture, she set it down and turned her attention to the mirror. There were postcards stuck all around the frame, each from a different city: Cairo, Frankfurt, Istanbul. She selected one at random and flipped it over. The only message was a sketch of two playing cards.

She put the card back where she'd found it and picked up a half-empty bottle of liquid foundation. Even though her own skin was quite fair, she would never have dreamed of wearing anything so pale. She tipped the bottle onto her finger and experimentally rubbed a little of the stuff on her cheek. It was too light for the skin now.

The door opened. Carol dropped the bottle, spilling foundation over the mahogany table. "I'm sorry—"

"No, I'm sorry," protested the black-haired boy who'd poked his head inside. "I guess I forgot I'm supposed to knock. Rogue and Kitty don't mind. I just wanted to . . . I dunno . . . say hi, or something. I'm Kurt."

Carol glanced down at the photographs. "You're in this picture," she murmured. "Here with Rogue."

Kurt crossed the room to look at it. "Yeah, that was two summers ago, at MGM Studios. Ze professor let us fly down for the day."

"So it was before . . ."

"Before she met you, yeah. She couldn't fly, but she was the best hand-to-hand fighter on the team. And she was a huge roller coaster junkie."

"I am, too," Carol admitted. "Kurt, I'm so sorry about what's happened to your friend—"

"My sister," Kurt corrected.

Carol glanced in the mirror at the face she wore. No particular resemblance, really, but siblings were like that sometimes. "Your sister," she repeated obediently. "I never meant to take her life away from her. I can't imagine how hard this must be for you."

"It's okay," Kurt insisted. "Rogue always felt awful about what happened to you, even when she couldn't remember much of it. So awful she wouldn't even talk about it. I know she would have chosen all this, to give you a chance to get your life back."

Carol shook her head, her eyes straying ashamedly down to the puddle of spilled makeup. "She could _die _if this experiment goes wrong. Not even die properly, in her own body . . . just fade away into nothing. Forget herself."

"Doesn't matter, to Rogue. I've seen her risk her life before. And I know she'd try all sorts of crazy before she'd let Mystique beat her."

"Mystique," Carol repeated. "I've heard that name before. In the meeting, they said that this was Mystique's fault. But I don't know anyone named Mystique. Not a soul."

"Oh, you probably knew her," Kurt insisted, his voice weary and resigned. "She vas a shape-shifter, so she could have been anybody. Anybody you ever knew who had a reason to hate you. She vas good at keeping grudges. But so is Rogue, and she's got a bigger grudge against Mystique zan you could even believe."

Outside, Carol heard the rumble of a large jet engine, flying low and approaching fast. Kurt turned towards the window, a smile erasing the discomfort and sadness on his face. "Zat's the X-Jet. Logan's back."

"_That's _your jet?" Carol demanded, her well-trained Air Force ear trying frantically to identify the sound. "What _is_ that, a Blackbird?"

"Yep," Kurt told her proudly. "But zat's nothing. You should see ze plastic helicopter."

* * *

Author's Notes:

Wow, now the French is coming thick and fast.

_J'n'comprends pas_: I don't understand.

_Elle est qui, elle_?: Who is she?

_Ferme-la_: This is an _extremely _rude way to tell somebody to shut up.

'_Allo_: This is how French people say Hello on the phone. Just on the phone. I don't know why.

_Qui est:_ Who is it? Actually, it should be _qui est-ce que c'est?_ but when you're actually talking it streamlines down to _qui est_.

_Mon frère_: My brother.

_Je le sais: _I know it.

_Mon gar_: Dude; man. A casual form of address amongst guys.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

* * *

Everyone was waiting outside the hangar when the X-Jet pulled in. The gathering was awkward, to say the least: no one could stop staring at Carol, though no one wanted to be caught doing it, and it was better not to talk to Gambit if you liked having your head attached to the rest of you.

He'd hitchhiked into New York City to recover his bike, snapped at Storm for letting Carol fly off with Rogue's body (as though she'd gone joyriding in his car) and was now lurking in the shadows, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Carol.

Kitty, never one to deal gracefully with awkward silences, was making everything worse by scuffing her shoes on the floor. She knew it was making everything worse, but somehow she couldn't stop, not when there was some strange grown-up in their house looking just like her roommate. It was like living with Mystique—a Mystique they were expected to be nice to, because she'd been through a horrible experience.

As soon as Kitty heard the bay doors open, she sprinted out into the hangar. No one followed her, simply because no one else could stand in front of the X-Jet without getting battered to a pulp or burned to a crisp. She jumped through the nose of the plane and climbed into the cockpit, her head popping up through the control panel.

She found herself nose-to-nose with that big metal Acolyte.

She squeaked and dropped back down through the plane, but Logan grabbed her by the ponytail and hauled her back up. "Need somethin', Half-Pint?"

"I . . . I just wanted to see if you'd brought Doctor MacTaggart," Kitty lied, climbing sheepishly out of the control panel. "Um . . . why is Colossus in our plane?"

"Why is Gambit in our house?" asked Logan, always fair-minded about these things. "He's here because he wanted to come with Moira. Under the circumstances, I didn't feel like arguin' about it."

"Oh." Kitty eyed the big Russian nervously, trying to be discreet about keeping her back to Logan.

"I will not hurt you, little one," Colossus informed her. "I am retired."

"That's good," said Kitty in a very small voice. He was very, very big, and she was the shortest X-Man except for Jamie.

"You are Kitty, correct?"

"Yeah."

"I am Piotr." He offered her his hand.

Kitty accepted it, trying very, very hard to ignore how much larger it was than her own. "Nice to officially meet you."

"Likewise."

The loading hatch opened, and Kitty fled gratefully to the at-least-familiar awkwardness of Gambit and Carol.

Moira was the next to exit the plane, Colossus at her heels. Though she as not a physically imposing person, her face was solemn and grim. But it was hard not to take someone seriously when she was being closely tailed by a six-and-a-half-foot-tall mountain of muscle.

Gambit pushed off from the wall where he'd been leaning, gave Carol a parting 'you-stay-right-where-you-are' glare, and fell in behind Professor Xavier. They two parties met in the middle of the hangar, looking like mob negotiators: the heads of two powerful houses, each followed by a dangerous Acolyte bodyguard.

"Charles," Moira acknowledged, bowing her head a little in acknowledgment.

"Moira. Thank you so much for coming."

"I hardly realized your team had grown so large," Moira observed, her eyes darting to the assembled X-Men. "The last time I was here, it was only the five of you."

"We're sixteen strong now," said Professor Xavier, and despite the tense situation there was no mistaking the pride in his voice.

"I'm happy for you. Though I'm sorry that not all of your new X-Men live up to the standard of your originals." She sent quick smiles to Scott and Jean, neither of whom smiled back, before turning her attention to Gambit. Gambit stared her down, unflinching.

"A pretty mess you've made of things, young man," she observed, her tone deceptively light.

Gambit nodded. "_Ouais_. I have. And if I could give back what I took from you, I'd gladly do it now. I violated de terms of my agreement wid Professor Xavier: I stole somet'in' because _I_ wanted it, and fo'no other reason. Dat was wrong. I'm payin' fo'it now, but you're entitled to your retribution, too. Any'tin' I kin give you, any price you ask, you name it an' it's yours."

"What I want from you, Gambit, is your blood."

Gambit blinked, startled, but quickly recovered himself. "Dat's fair."

Moira's scowl twisted into a reluctant smile. "Not _all_ of it. I need more samples to produce another compound, and since Rogue's powers are dormant right now, you're the only leech we've got. You started this mess, you get to solve it."

Gambit smiled, and slid one foot forward to sweep a full, old-fashioned bow. "Not'n would please me more."

"All right, then."

"One moment," Piotr interrupted. "There is something the Cajun and I need to settle first." Without any further preamble, he slugged Gambit across the face.

Gambit staggered, all but falling over, and clapped a hand to his face as though to check that his eyeball hadn't popped out. The other hand he raised towards the team, halting the charge of the startled and astonished X-Men.

Scott had a hand on his visor, Jean had her hands up and fingers splayed, Bobby was iced up, Roberto and Amara were bathed in shimmering black heat. The whole tam was ready to jump to his defense. "S'okay," he insisted, working the muscles of his face to be sure nothing was broken. "I had dat comin'."

Scott sighed and flicked the 'stand down' hand signal at his teammates. "All right, people, show's over. You all have homework. Bobby, give Gambit something for his face. The rest of you, upstairs."

The audience reluctantly dispersed. Bobby ran up to Gambit and spread a thin layer of ice across his injured cheek. Gambit muttered a resigned "_Merci_" and turned back to Moira, deliberately ignoring Carol who was now standing right behind him.

"All right, then," Moira announced. "If you two are quite finished . . .?"

Gambit and Colossus both nodded. "Score's even," Gambit told her. "We good."

Moira turned to Carol and gave her an encouraging smile. "Then let's get ourselves to work. We haven't much time."

* * *

"So we just even, or are we friends again?" Gambit asked conversationally as he watched his rich, burgundy-colored blood ooze down the plastic tubing into the sample bag that lay on the floor next to his lab bed.

"That depends on you, I suppose." Piotr stood with his back against the wall, keeping a watchful eye on the entire medical bay.

"Hey, I'm already bleedin' my brains out. What more d'you want?" Gambit raised his voice. "_Madame le docteur_, how much'a dis are you plannin' t'have outta me?"

"As much as I can get," Moira told him, looking up from her consultation with Hank and Carol. "I'm not exactly sure how this process works, on a practical level, and I want a good supply of material to experiment with. So stop grousing and keep bleeding."

"I t'ink my eyes are goin' white," Gambit grumbled.

"If that happens, I will tell you," Piotr assured him.

Gambit sighed and laid his head back, flexing his hand again to keep his blood flow going. "So how d'you like my house?"

"_Your_ house? Have you stolen the deed?"

"You're sailin' right past snippy an' headin' for just plain mean, y'know," Gambit told him, glaring. "Dis my home. I earned a place here."

"What are you trying to prove me, _tovarisch_? You have a lovely home. I acknowledge it. Congratulations."

"You still scowlin', though. Still ticked off at me?"

Piotr hmphed. "I want to be out of this house. I'm an Acolyte. I am not welcome here."

"Professor Xavier seemed pleased enough t'see you."

"To see Doctor MacTaggart. It is different for me. These children . . . your X-Men . . . they're afraid of me."

"Can you blame 'em? You're scary. _Look_ at you."

Piotr rolled his eyes.

"It's somethin' they get over, Pete. When I first showed up here, I scared Amara so bad she almost choked on her toothbrush."

Against his better judgment, Piotr cracked a smile. "Which one is Amara?"

"Magma. De taller of de little brunettes. Would y'like me t'make you some flash cards?"

"No, thank you. I won't be staying long enough for it to matter."

"Won't you?"

"Why are you still harping on this?"

"Why're you still fightin' it? Dese people deserve someone like you. An' you deserve what dey got t'offer. You're supposed t'be here, Pete. You're an X-Man. Jean saw it in me an' I see it in you." He spared a glance for the computer space, where Carol was still listening intently to Hank and Moira, supporting her chin with the heel of her hand and resting her elbow on her other fist in a very un-Rogue-like posture. "And when we get her back, I'm gonna have to leave again. De more firepower I leave protectin' her an'dis house, de better I'm gonna sleep."

Colossus's gaze followed his. "The more I know you, the less I understand you. After all you have dared for her, how could you walk away from her?"

Gambit sighed, feeling a shudder of light-headedness from the draining blood. "_Je ne sais pas._ But I gotta find a way."

* * *

Carol hesitantly approached the hospital bed where a woman's body lay, passive and empty, barely producing enough energy to keep the heart monitor endlessly beeping. She reached out one hand to stroke the blonde hair that lay across the pillow. "There it is," she murmured, her voice quietly ironic. "Just like I left it."

"_That's_ you?" Logan demanded, closing the door behind himself.

"Yeah. It's not something I'd get mixed up about."

"I _know _you!" Logan turned his eyes from the blonde Carol to the redheaded one. "Turkmenistan, 1996."

Carol's mouth fell open. "No way. _You're_ Weapon X?"

"Was," Logan allowed, a snarl in his voice. "I forcibly retired."

"Who did the forcing?"

"I did." A brief, fierce grin darted across his face.

"Kin we save de army stories for later?" Gambit demanded, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. "It ain't gonna be too long before somebody pops in t'check on us."

He was the only person on this mission who didn't have a specific job to do. Professor Xavier was here to help with the transfer, doing all he could to make sure that Carol's personality left and Rogue's stayed. Doctor MacTaggart was handling the drugs. Logan had flown the jet, and was now standing guard by the door. But Gambit was just here for Rogue.

Doctor MacTaggart was already unscrewing the needle from the syringe she'd brought. She fitted the tube into the little entry port that branched off from Carol's saline drip, then carefully pressed the plunger. Without meaning to, Gambit shuddered and rubbed absently at his injection site through the sleeve of his coat.

"How long will it take to work?" Carol asked, watching her empty body for some sort of change.

"I've no idea," Moira admitted. "Gambit?"

Gambit shrugged. "Last time I took dis stuff, I wasn't clockin' it. Twenty minutes, half an hour, maybe. An' it lasts about de same."

"Well, I guess now we just wait and see." Carol sat down on the edge of the bed, placing Rogue's hand on her own. "Professor Xavier, Doctor MacTaggart . . . whether this works or not, I just want to say thank you. And you, too, Gambit."

Gambit scowled, wanting none of her thanks, not while she was crushing Rogue to death. Carol pressed on anyway. "It's because of your actions that I have any chance at all of getting my life back."

"Jus' answer me one question, while we're waitin'."

"What's that?"

"What was it you did dat ticked off Mystique so bad she risked her life and career t'take you out?"

Carol furrowed Rogue's brow. "I've been trying to think who I might have known this Mystique person as, but there's really no way to narrow it down. I'm in Special Ops. All kinds of people want to kill me. If I knew her M.O, or her aliases . . ."

"She went by 'Raven Darkholme' when we knew her," Logan offered, "but that's no guarantee. She could switch names every ten minutes if she wanted to."

"No, wait. I did know a Raven. Raven Vandermere. She was an administrator in the program I was a part of. She was always a little . . . suspicious. Funds, records, even people kept going missing, things she was vaguely connected to but not necessarily in charge of. Some of my buddies and I did some checking up on her background, trying to gather enough evidence for a court-martial, and we found out she was keeping a little girl without official custody of any kind. There was no birth certificate, no adoption paperwork, no foster care records . . . we thought maybe Raven had kidnapped her. We contacted Child Protective Services, but by the time they moved, Raven had disappeared and taken the girl with her. Turned out on further investigation that she'd embezzled nearly thirty thousand dollars."

"Bout when was dis?" Gambit wanted to know.

"Maybe nine, ten years ago."

Gambit exchanged a significant glance with Logan. "Dat was round about when Rogue moved to Mizippi t'live wid Irene."

Logan snorted. "That woman was always weird about her kids. Weird in a bad way."

"Won't she ever just die?"

"She did. And the mess she made is ending. Today."

No one said anything more for a while.

Then Carol gasped. "I think I felt something."

Professor Xavier closed his eyes. "Stay calm. It's harder for me to reach into your mind if you're panicked."

"I'm calm," Carol insisted, wincing. "There it was again. I think the drug's kicking in." She hissed as another twinge of pain hit her. "Oh, yeah. I remember now. This hurts a lot."

"I would've given you morphine, but there's no way to know how another drug would affect the transfer process," said Moira apologetically.

"That's all right. I stood it once, I can stand it again." Carol took a firmer grip around her unconscious self's wrist and gritted her teeth.

"It's starting," Professor Xavier announced. "I can see their psychic patterns shifting."

Carol cried out and let herself fall over, burying her face in the thin, scratchy blanket. Logan braced his back against the door and dug his heels into the linoleum.

"Oh, God . . . it _hurts_ . . ." Carol moaned. Her hand went slack, and her arm twitched away from the contact that was burning her.

Gambit jumped forward, recognizing in a second that he was the only one wearing gloves. He grabbed Rogue's wrist in one hand and Carol's in the other, pressing them together, maintaining the connection even as both women cried out in pain.

"Hold on," Professor Xavier ordered. "It's working."

Someone outside pounded on the door. "What's going on in there?"

"Carol's nearly out," Xavier told them. "Gambit, get ready to break their contact the instant I say so. A second too long and we might lose Rogue inside of Carol."

"Ready."

"_REMY!_" Rogue screamed, her voice rough and piercing from the pain. Gambit winced, but didn't let go.

The door handle began to rattle. "Open this door immediately!"

"Now!" Professor Xavier ordered.

Gambit jerked Rogue away and crushed her against his chest, holding her up as her knees buckled underneath her. He could feel her crying. "Shhh, shh. I gotcha. It's all over."

Carol sat up, gasping. She reached up with trembling hands to feel her face, her throat, her hair. "I'm okay," she breathed, seemingly more to convince herself than to assure anyone else. "I'm okay. I'm okay."

Rogue fought Remy's grip, struggling to turn and look at the pale, dazed blonde. "Carol . . ." she choked.

"I'm right here, Rogue." Though they'd never really met, Gambit could hear in their voices how close they'd become. They called out to one another like sisters.

"Kin you fly?" Rogue demanded, tears streaming down her face.

Carol shook her head. "The air's too heavy. I can feel it . . ." She pressed one hand against her chest, struggling to keep breathing.

"NO!" Rogue shoved her way out of Remy's arms . . . she was far too strong for him to hold . . . and fell across Carol's knees with her fingers digging into the blanket. "Oh, Carol, Ah'm so sorry, Ah'm so sorry, Ah took it all away from you . . . Ah didn't mean to, Ah'm so, so sorry . . ."

Carol laid one hand on Rogue's head, and tears streamed down her face, too. "It's all right," she whispered. "Until, I'm back in the air, you'll just have to fly for both of us."

"Her powers may very well come back," Moira murmured, more to Professor Xavier than to anyone else in the room. "There's nothin' to be done but to wait and see."

"Can I let these folks in now?" asked Logan, digging his heels a little more firmly into the floor. "They're getting kinda antsy." The door shuddered behind his back; those outside were doing their best to break it down.

"Yes, let them in, Logan." The Professor pulled his chair back from Carol's bed. "It's time we were going."

Logan stepped away from the door. A swarm of furious nurses and orderlies came pouring in, all demanding to know what was going on. Gambit stripped off his coat and laid it over Rogue's back, covering the almost indecent nakedness of her hands and arms. He drew her away from the press of the crowd, letting her cry into his shoulder until she was calm.

"The lieutenant's awake," one of the nurses yelled out into the hallway. "Somebody call her family, and get her C.O. down here."

"_Viens, chère_," Gambit murmured. "It's over now. We kin go home, you an' me. We kin go home together."

"Ah'm so tired . . ."

"I know. C'mon. 'Bout time you got some rest. Lean on me."

Rogue did as she was told, clinging tightly to his shoulders as he guided her from the room and out of the hospital. As soon as they were out the main doors, he picked her up and carried her. She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder long before they reached the plane.

* * *

_Je ne sais pas: _I don't know.

_Viens_: Come on.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

* * *

Rogue drifted back to consciousness slowly and gently, as though someone were rocking her awake the way they would rock a baby to sleep. She could feel her heart beating languorously inside her chest. She was warm, and comfortable, and safe, asleep on a spring mattress for the first time in months. A comforter was pulled up to her chin and tucked around her body, cocooning her in softness.

Could she move? It had been so long since she'd had any command over her own body . . . riding around as a passenger behind Carol had been a living nightmare. She was almost afraid to try, afraid of finding that she wasn't free at all and that all the pain had been for nothing.

She opened her eyes.

For a long moment, she didn't know where she was. The ceiling was familiar, but it wasn't that of her bedroom. She knew it, though. She'd woken up here before.

This was Gambit's room.

She wiggled her whole body, loosening the blankets a little and pushing herself up against the headboard. Remy was there next to her, sprawled in a chair he'd pulled up towards the head of the bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his chin on his chest.

_Remy, you silly, Ah coulda slept in my own bed . . ._ She sighed, smiling, and felt the smile tense and tremble as tears welled stinging in her eyes. She let them fall, careful not to let her breathing hitch enough to wake him up.

He wore gloves. Not cut-off gloves, that left his fingers free for fine work on his motorcycle or with his picks . . . gloves like hers, fully covering and confining. Like jesses on a falcon, a muzzle on a wolf, a bridle on a mustang. Wild, untamed Remy, as free as the wind, wore gloves like hers.

And Carol, who had lived in the sky, might never leave the ground again. Rogue's enslavement had spread like a plague. The tears kept flowing, and she made no move to wipe them away until they quietly ran dry.

When she was certain she was calm, she wiped her face clean—her own hands were bare, as Carol had left them, but for the platinum ring that gleamed white against her tan—and reached out to touch Remy's knee.

He made a faint moaning, waking-up sort of noise in the back of his throat, and Rogue found herself smiling. It was that sound that convinced her he was really there. She'd never really noticed it before, but now she remembered: he'd made the same sound every morning that she'd woken up in this room.

He smiled at her, and her heart stuttered and ached with amazement at how beautiful he was. "Mornin', _chère_," he murmured, like this was just a regular Saturday at the Institute. Then he checked his wristwatch. "Yeah, still mornin'. Fo'a few minutes, anyway." He arched backward, stretching, and pushed himself up until he was sitting more than lounging. "How'd you sleep?"

"How _long_ did Ah sleep?" Rogue countered. "Ah don't even know what day it is."

"It's Thursday, and you been out just shy'a twenty hours."

"You been here that whole time?"

He laughed. "I needed some sleep, too."

"So how come Ah'm in this bed instead'a you?"

"'Cuz Kitty wasn't too keen on de idea of me as a third roommate, and I couldn't sleep unless I knew you was still breathin'. _Sacré_, girl, you gave us some scares."

He'd stayed with her all night to be sure she kept breathing. He was wearing gloves like hers. Rogue sat up, intending to climb out of his bed that second and stop unintentionally stealing his life from him, but the room spun violently in response to her first sudden movement. Remy caught her by the shoulders as she swayed and made her lean back against the headboard. "Hey, take it easy. Y'head's gonna wobble off your neck if you try dat again."

Rogue reached up and caught his hand in both of hers. "Is it true?" she demanded, her voice choked with sudden terror. "Everything after Japan's kinda hazy and dreamy, like Ah was lookin' up at everybody through deep water, but Ah remember . . . Ah remember 'em bleedin' you. 'Cuz they needed leech blood for Carol. Hank said you'd stolen something, and taken it . . . is it true?"

He sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked into her face, and didn't say anything.

"Tell me you can take these gloves off, Remy. _Please_. Tell me I didn't take your life away from you."

"You didn'take anythin' away from me, _chère._ I chose."

"But they can undo it, right? That doctor from Scotland . . . it's just a drug, it'll wear off, right? Or there's an antidote, or something."

"Moira's workin' on a power suppressant. She an' Hank an' de Professor are still comparing notes. She's guessin' twenty years before it's ready for us."

"Twenty years . . ." Rogue echoed. Right now, she couldn't process the thought of a potential future when she could take a shot and turn her powers off forever. All she could think of was Remy—tactile, vivacious, devil-may-care Remy—trapped inside his own skin for the next twenty years.

She turned his hand over and stared at it, as though the glove were a battle scar, or as though she could read their destinies in the creases that ran through the leather. "Oh, _gosh_, Remy . . . what were you thinkin'? How could you do that to yourself? Ah told you, Ah _told_ you not to let yourself get hurt . . . did you even stop for one second to think about what that drug would do to you? To your life? To your future?"

"All I was t'inkin' was dat mornin' in N'Awlins. About how much I'd pay to have dat moment back."

_New Orleans. _It was the first time either of them had spoken of it. That morning in New Orleans. _Their _morning in New Orleans.

"But . . . but you'll never be able to touch anybody. Ever again. How could you have given that up?"

"Well, word on de street is you got some tricks up yo'sleeve in dat department."

Rogue shook her head, dismissing as a triviality an entire summer's worth of study and accomplishment. "Those tricks won't ever make up for what you had. They're just . . . like physical therapy, kinda. Like walkin' again after a car wreck. Sure, you can move your legs again, take a few steps maybe, and that's all fantastic, but you're still kicked off the track team."

"I never much liked track anyway."

"_Don't_ joke. Why didn't you tell me about this before you went and did it?"

Remy grinned. "'Cause it's a lot easier listen to you tiradin' when de deed's already done an'dey's nothin' you kin do about it."

"But what if we fight someday? What if we break up? What if there's somebody else, and you decide that—"

Remy pulled his hand out of hers and planted it across her mouth, abruptly cutting her off. "Better stop right dere, or you gonna get downright insultin'. I already decided. My decidin's done. If you don't wanna be stuck wid a two-bit back-alley hood like me, dat's somet'in' different, but—"

Rogue pushed the hand off her mouth. "But you ain't a two-bit back-alley hood. You're the best there is."

"So're you."

She let her head fall back against the headboard. The room was spinning again, but that was probably because her heart had momentarily stopped beating.

In the end, she had to force herself to look away from his face before she could get her breath back. _Drat_ those eyes and what they did to her concentration. She could barely remember any of the long list of protests she'd had ready. Only one remained in her head, and she could barely muster the breath to speak it at all. "But how do we know it would be like New Orleans again? What if Ah hurt you?"

Remy sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Now, dat one _is _a problem."

Rogue dared to look at him again, suddenly concerned. That had never had been his response to her eternal worry that she'd hurt him. Remy never worried about _anything_ hurting him. He was too quick, too impossibly talented, for anything in this world to really hurt him. At least, in his view.

But that hadn't been what he meant. "_Saint ciel, _Rogue, I nearly killed you. De way you felt . . . de way you looked, lyin' there . . . whole brand-new set'a nightmares." He shook his head, as though trying to shake the memories out. "Guess dis summer didn'work out quite like either of us was plannin'."

Rogue sighed. "Does it ever?" She cautiously reached out her hand, wrapping her fingers around his and squeezing until she could feel a shadow of his warmth through the glove. "We're alive and we're together. That's gotta count for somethin'."

Remy squeezed back, and the pressure of his hand was safe and secure and wonderful. "Counts for a lot. We beat de odds dis far, after all." With his free hand, he brushed back the stripe that had fallen across her face. In all the months of growing out her hair, the blazing white locks had remained adamantly chin-length. She felt herself lean into his caress, and let her eyes drift shut. He let his fingers wander over her face, along the line of her jaw, across her cheek, under her eye and back, impossibly gently, over her eyelid.

"So what do we do now?" he asked, never ceasing the gentle, stroking movement of his fingers across her face.

She coaxed her eyes open to meet his. "How about we try takin' it one day at a time?"

Remy smiled. "Think we kin do dat."

* * *

When Kitty entered the kitchen, unshouldering her heavy book bag, she found Gambit and Rogue sharing leftovers at the kitchen table. "Rogue!" She ran to hug her roommate, but moved carefully, afraid Rogue might be somehow sore or injured from her crazy last few days. "Are you, like, okay?"

"Ah'm fine," Rogue assured her, hugging her back as well as she could without standing up. "Just tired as all heck. Are you okay? And Kurt, and everybody? Where is Kurt?"

"Still at school. He had to start freshman year without you. He and Scott both have afternoon classes, so they won't be home until four."

"You guys coming to training?" asked Bobby, foraging in the cupboards for something to eat.

"Yeah, just a minute," Kitty assured him. She dropped into another of the kitchen chairs. "So do I ever get to know what happened? I brought all your CDs back and everything, and I didn't let any of them get scratched. I deserve some kind of payback for that."

Rogue shrugged. "Not much to know. Ah went a little crazy, Ah ran away with Logan, Gambit accidentally sucked mah brains out and Ah woke up at home."

"Wow," Kitty commented. "That was really enlightening. Thanks."

"That's really about all that happened."

Kitty turned to Gambit, fed up with Rogue's taciturn mood. "Nobody really wanted to ask you about it while . . . um . . . while Carol was here . . ." She shot an apologetic glance at Rogue, in case bringing up Carol was rude. "Amara heard Hank and Storm talking. They said you'd . . . taken something."

"Dat's what I left de Institute to do," Gambit commented mildly. "Take stuff."

"I mean like a drug."

Gambit laid his hand over Rogue's. For the first time, Kitty noticed that he wasn't wearing his old cut-offs. His gloves covered his whole hand, just like Rogue's . . . the symbol of her imprisonment. "I stole somethin' I had no business stealin', and I'll pay for it de rest of my life. I'm just like she is, now."

"You mean, you can't touch anybody either?"

"Not a soul. So if I owed y'a backrub, I'm sorry."

"Um . . . I'm pretty sure you didn't." Kitty felt herself blushing, and she saw Gambit grin. He loved embarrassing her. "So is your power stronger than Rogue's? Is that how she got hurt?"

"Kitty!" Jean called through the hall door. "Better get changed for training."

"Yeah, I'm coming."

"Gambit, you too."

"_J'arrive_." Gambit turned to Rogue. "_Ça va, toi?_"

She nodded. "I'll go watch from the observation room. Not feelin' up to the Danger Room quite yet." She pushed back from the table and lifted into the air, which was a sure sign that she was still pretty dizzy. "Have fun."

* * *

Jean activated her headset and tapped the microphone. "Testing, testing."

"Loud and clear, Red," Logan's voice announced in her ear.

"Everybody's present and briefed, so we can start whenever you're ready."

"All right. Activating in ten."

Jean turned her attention to her assembled teammates. "Ten seconds, everybody. First one to the target wins for his or her team. Pay attention to your surroundings, and keep your communication lines open."

"And here we go," Logan told her. The silver-gray Danger Room dissolved into a holographic jungle, complete with heat and humidity. A round metal tag drone zoomed overhead, and Jean dove for cover in a convenient patch of ferns. A few strands of her hair became tangled around the headset.

_This comm gear is a pain, _she griped. _Can't we just use telepathy?_

"No."

Jean sighed and reached out with her mind to catch a passing drone. Logan had been remarkably calm since he and Rogue had returned from Japan. He hadn't been avoiding her, hadn't been losing his temper, hadn't even spent a single evening at MacGuire's. But he hadn't let her into his mind any more than he could help, drawing on all his skill and discipline to keep her out. On the surface, things were back to normal, but in place of their former friendship there was a wall of polite silence.

She smashed a drone against the wall and scrambled to her feet, trying to focus on the training drill. Now was not the time to worry about Logan, not when she was supposed to be focused on training her teammates.

She heard the hiss of a pneumatic door over the comm link. Logan liked to use the speaker instead of a headset. "Hey, Aza-chan," she heard him murmur. "Feelin' better?"

"Like Ah just got off the Tilt-a-Whirl, so yeah, lots better."

Jean glanced up at the observation room; she saw Rogue peering down into the training space. "What're we runnin'?" she asked.

"Subtropical climate, heavy cover, a dozen tag drones, thirty-foot free climb to the target. Pretty standard."

"Where's Gambit?"

A flaming card came shooting out of the tree cover, smacking into an airborne drone and blasting it into shrapnel.

"Oh, there he is," Rogue deadpanned. "Never mind."

"For a career sneak, he sure does know how to get himself noticed."

Jean checked to make sure that her route was clear, then sprinted for the cliff wall to rendezvous with any other team members who'd made it that far. Though she knew Logan was perfectly aware of the open comm link, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was eavesdropping.

"Hey, Logan?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we go practice this afternoon? After training? If you don't want to, Ah totally understand, but . . . but my focus is shot to heck after what happened. Ah feel like Ah been bit by a dog Ah trusted, or thrown off a horse . . . or like Ah was Storm and got struck by lightning. But Ah feel like the longer Ah go without tryin' again, the harder it's gonna be to get over this, so . . ."

"No problem, Stripes. I get it. We'll work when the run's over."

"Thanks."

Jean tripped and had to conjure a telekinetic wall to keep herself from falling on her face. _Pay attention, pay attention, pay attention_. Now was not the time to wonder how Logan and Rogue had come to be so close, so comfortable with one another. Now was not the time to wonder if Scott had been right when he'd asked her if she was jealous.

But why did _Rogue_ get a third name?

Everyone at the Institute had three names: their legal name, their combat name, and the name Logan used for them. Scott, Cyclops, Shades; Kurt, Nightcrawler, Elf; Kitty, Shadowcat, Half-Pint. She and Rogue were the only X-Men who were limited to two names: Rogue had no legal name, and Jean's combat name had been a complete disaster that was best forgotten. But Rogue had come back with a new name. _Azami_. She had three names now, and two of them had been gifts from Logan.

He'd taken Rogue with him and left Jean behind.

* * *

Rogue stayed outside after Logan went in, working on her meditation. It seemed weird to be meditating here, outside her normal house where she lived her normal life, instead of in the timeless solitude of the mountain. But she had a lot of work to do to get back to where she had been, so if she had to spend her time sitting cross-legged on the lawn by the pool looking like a nutcase, then that's what she'd do.

"Rogue?"

Rogue opened her eyes and turned around. Jean was hesitantly approaching her across the lawn, combing her hair back behind her ear as though she were nervous. But that was impossible. Jean didn't get _nervous_.

"I didn't mean to bother you," Jean apologized. "I just wanted to talk, if you had a minute."

Rogue uncrossed her legs and leaned back on the grass. "Sure, no problem. What's up?"

Jean sat down across from her, leaning on one hand and tucking her feet underneath her like a mermaid's tail. "It's . . . it's about Logan," she admitted.

Rogue didn't let her face so much as twitch, but she felt her body silently tense up in preparation for attack. Time to keep her secrets, like she'd promised. "What about him?"

"I know he's been . . . been doing better, since you guys got back. And that's great. But he's still not really talking to me. I don't know why he left, or what he found out there. And I was wondering, since you were with him . . ."

"You want _me_ to tell you," Rogue finished for her.

Jean nodded. "If you can."

Jean was worried, Rogue realized. _Really _worried. Like the way she herself had been worried about Gambit while he'd been gone. She felt a sudden flutter of pity for the older girl, up to her neck in problems she couldn't even be allowed to understand. Poor Jean. She'd never asked for any of this.

_How can I be feeling sorry for Jean? Perfect Jean Gray? ME? _

"Jean, have you ever learned something and afterwards wished you hadn't?"

"You mean besides anatomy?" Jean joked. "Not really. I've learned things that I wished weren't true, but I always think it's better to know how things really are."

Yeah, Jean would think that. Jean wasn't handicapped by her powers, had never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it, had never been betrayed, had never loved someone she shouldn't. Everything was so simple for her. She was such a child. And Rogue, in comparison, was a grown woman . . . not in years, maybe, but in experience.

"Logan learned something," Rogue started. "In New Orleans. This thing had to be kept a secret. It's not something he's ever going to be able to fix. It's just going to make his life that much sadder, from now until the day he dies. And if he tells you, it's going to be just the same for you as for him. You'll be trapped with a secret that will only hurt you. Can't you understand why he won't tell you?"

"But he told you."

Rogue nodded. "It was kind of an accident, but yeah."

"And do you wish he hadn't?"

"Ah . . . Ah wish there hadn't been anythin' to tell. But Ah'm glad he doesn't have to deal with it by himself anymore."

"That's what I want," Jean insisted. "I want to be able to share whatever it is that's hurting him, even if I can't do anything to fix it. At least I can be his friend, like he's been mine for all these years."

"Even if it means wakin' up every morning and havin' to remember all over again how much it hurts?"

Jean hesitated, but when she spoke, her voice was firm. "If that's what it takes, then yes. It has to be better than not knowing. I just want my friend back, and I don't care what it does to me."

"If you really, _really _mean that, then go tell it to Logan. See what he says."

* * *

In theory, Kitty Pryde could move in absolute silence. All she had to do was phase out, and she could pass imperceptibly through anything that might make a sound and give her away. In theory, at least. In practice, Kitty was a klutz of the highest order.

Which was how she found herself sprawled gracelessly on the ground in the middle of the Institute's woods, spitting out dead leaves and looking up . . . _way_ up . . . at a startled and embarrassed Colossus. Even sitting down on a rock, he was taller than anybody had any business being.

"Um . . ." Kitty began, scrambling frantically for some way out of this short of phasing into the ground, "hi."

"Good afternoon," he answered automatically. "I beg your pardon . . . I didn't think anyone would be here."

"Oh, no, nobody is. I mean, there's me, but . . . I was just taking a walk, and, um, then . . ."

"You were spying on me?"

"No!" Kitty protested, but she knew that the lie would fall flat before it even came out of her mouth, so she immediately corrected herself. "Yes." She hurriedly scrambled to her feet, brushing dead leaves off of her clothes. "I just saw you come out here, and wondered what you were doing, and . . . what _are_ you doing, anyway?"

"Nothing," said Colossus at once, flipping closed the sketchpad he'd had propped open on his knee. "Just passing the time until Doctor MacTaggart is ready to return to Muir Island."

"Is that a sketchbook?" Kitty asked, now more curious than embarrassed. His shyness made her feel braver. "Can I see?"

"It's only for practice," Colossus protested as Kitty took the sketchpad from his hands and sat down on the boulder next to him. "They're not very good. I never really learned."

"Are you kidding?" Kitty demanded, flipping slowly through the heavy sheets of textured paper. "These are amazing!"

All the drawings were in pencil, careful, detailed representations of plants and flowers, still lifes of pencils and coffee mugs, portraits of people Rogue didn't recognize. "These must have taken you forever," Kitty breathed, letting her fingers drift over the sketches without touching them. "Who is this?"

Colossus turned the sketchpad toward him so he could see the portrait of a smiling, bright-eyed little girl. "My little sister," he told her, and Kitty could hear the pride and affection in his voice. "It was very hard for her to hold still long enough to let me finish the picture."

"Yeah, she looks like a bundle of energy." Kitty flipped past a few more pages. "Hey, look, it's Gambit!"

"_He_ would not hold still at all," said Colossus, and he was smiling now. "I had to take a photograph and work from that. He still doesn't know that I drew it."

Kitty giggled. "It looks just like him. That's exactly the look he gets when he decides to do something that's going to get him into trouble."

"Oh, yes." He spoke with the resigned familiarity of someone who'd seen that look, and its consequences, many times before.

"It's really amazing that you can do this," Kitty murmured, browsing through half a dozen other portraits. "I would never have guessed. I guess when you're fighting on opposite sides, there's not a lot of time to talk about hobbies. I never knew Gambit could cook, either."

"My mutant gift led me to win my livelihood through violence," Piotr murmured, "but it has never been what I love. I am happiest when things are quiet, and I can draw." He looked away from the sketchbook, meeting Kitty's gaze. "I could . . . draw one of you, if you like. If you have time."

"Yeah!" Kitty agreed, much too hurriedly to be cool. She scrambled futilely to regain some sense of nonchalance. "I mean, if you wanted to. My homework's done and everything, so I don't have anything else to do."

"All right." He took the sketchbook back and turned to a fresh sheet of paper. "Go sit over there, in the sunlight."

Kitty did as she was told, trying very hard not to go red or to think about the teasing she'd have to endure if this got out. She was _so_ not telling Kurt.

* * *

Rogue found Gambit in the gazebo behind the house, leaning on the rail and shuffling his cards while he watched the tree line. She landed softly next to him, close enough that he could put his arm around her if he felt like it. "Hey, you," she murmured.

He turned to her, the cards coming to rest in his left hand and a soft, thoughtful smile teasing onto his face. "Hey, you."

"_Qu'est-ce qui se passe_?"

"_Pas grande chose_. I just watched Piotr wander into dose woods half an hour ago, and Kitty wander into 'em twenty minutes ago, and I'm seein' how long it takes fo' one or both of 'em to come out again."

Rogue raised her eyebrows. "Kitty and Colossus?"

Gambit shrugged. "It's a crazy enough world."

Rogue thought about this for a minute, then shrugged, too. Gambit knew Colossus better than she did, and if he wasn't worried she didn't see any reason why she should be. "Well, with any luck she'll stop moping over Stupid Lance."

"Yeah, she's been on dat kick for a bit too long now. Piotr's a good guy who's had his share of tough breaks. I wouldn't mind seein' him and Kitty makin' each other happy."

"Hm," observed Rogue noncommittally. "So just how many chickens are we keepin' in the door of the refrigerator these days?"

"So maybe I'm an optimist. Not a crime."

"You'd know, Ah guess."

Rogue glanced down at the railing of the gazebo. Her left hand was resting next to his right hand, both of them encased in black leather. There were at least six inches of empty rail between them.

Gambit looked down, too. "_Voilà _somet'in' I hoped I'd never see again," he commented. His voice was softly, stoically sad.

"Me, too."

"I asked you t'trust me once. I told you I wouldn't let neither of us get hurt." He shook his head. "I never thought I'd be afraid t'touch you. Lot easier t'gamble wid my life dan yours, I guess."

"Welcome t'my world," Rogue muttered. "But if we just stay afraid, then this whole summer will have been for nothin'. Everything you've given up—"

"Never you mind about dat."

"And never you mind about me. Ah'm willin' t'take a risk if you are."

Remy tucked his cards into his pocket and took her hand in both of his. "Whatever happens . . ." he murmured.

"Whatever happens," Rogue agreed.

He undid the snap that fastened her glove to her wrist and pulled it carefully off her. Rogue felt her heart start to race, from a fevered combination of excitement and terror. Her bare hand, dangerous as it was, felt impossibly vulnerable.

He caught the middle finger of his own glove in his teeth and pulled it off, laying it carefully on the railing next to hers. He let his fingers drift across her palm, close enough to make her shiver but never quite touching her skin.

The tip of his middle finger came to rest against the tip of hers . . . just lightly, just barely. Warmth to warmth, skin to skin, no barriers, no shields. Rogue felt her whole body flare in response, a wave of thrilling heat running up her arm and into her chest and throat and face. It was terrifying. She'd had no idea her body could be this powerful.

Her own strength drained helplessly out of her, and Remy's strength rushed in to fill the void. Perfectly balanced, perfectly matched.

She gasped, her heart and her hands trembling in rhythm. And she knew for a fact that her breathless, trembling, barely-audible cry of wonder was the most beautiful sound Remy had ever heard.

* * *

_Saint ciel_: Holy heaven

_J'arrive_: I'm coming.

_Ça va, toi? _You okay?

_Qu'est-ce qui se passe?_ What's going on?

_Pas grande chose_: Not much; nothing big.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

* * *

Logan had work to do on the Harley. After three months languishing in a garage, the beautiful blue bike needed a thorough cleaning and maintenance check. He had laid a dozen or so components out on an old dishtowel on the garage floor, and was methodically working mineral buildup off each one of them.

The kitchen door opened; he could tell by the faint creak that he'd never bothered to fix. And he knew it was Jean by the clean, sweet scent that mingled with the gasoline and grease in the air.

Silently, she sat down next to him and picked up a rag and something to scrub clean with it. Her presence made his chest ache and his throat sting, but he didn't let himself react. _The pain doesn't matter. Just let it hurt, and let it go._ "You wanna pass me that WD-40 over by you?"

Jean floated it over to him, her hands not pausing in their work. "There you go."

"Thanks."

"I talked to Rogue," Jean informed him.

"That's nice. She bite your head off again?"

"No. She was really calm. Helpful."

Logan began pondering how he was going to disconnect Rogue's head from her body if that girl had been shooting her mouth off. "Was she now."

"She told me you were hurting, and that I wouldn't be able to help you. Don't worry . . . she didn't tell me anything she shouldn't have. But she said if I really wanted to be there for you, even if it would be painful for me, then I should tell you that. So I am. I want to help you, Logan. Whatever you're going through, I want to be a part of it. You've done too much for me over the years for me to just stand by and let you suffer by yourself now."

"And you think having you suffer is gonna make me feel better?"

"I think that being honest with me might. I'm already suffering, Logan. I've lost my best friend."

"I'm sorry you think that, darlin'. But it's really better that way."

"How about you let me decide that?"

"You'd decide wrong."

"Okay. So I'll decide wrong. I can live with that."

Logan looked up at her, unable to repress a slight smile. Poor kid. This whole thing had to be hell for her. But Logan knew that she could learn to handle being excluded. He wasn't at all certain she'd learn to handle the truth.

"Logan?"

"I'm only talkin' if you change the subject. We're not discussing this anymore."

Jean's carefully constructed exterior of compassion and self-sacrifice cracked as her red-headed temper got the better of her. "You won't discuss it with _me_, but you'll take _Rogue _with you to the other side of the world and tell her everything she wants to know! Rogue, who's barely lived in this house for three years, when you and I have been friends for almost ten! Why do you trust _her_ with your secrets, but not _me_? What did _she_ ever do?"

Logan put down his work and looked up at her. "Are you jealous?"

"_Yes!_" Jean fumed. "I'm _jealous!_ Are you happy?"

He couldn't resist cracking a grin. "Well, it is pretty funny."

"Darn it, Logan!" She flung her greasy work rag at his head. Her color was up now; she was genuinely mad at him, and the anger made her heartbreakingly beautiful.

_How do I know what she's strong enough to handle? She's not a little girl anymore, and she's not a coward. She's a grown woman with a will and a temper. Do I even have the right to keep protecting her? Or does _she_ have the right to be seen as an equal and a friend, instead of a charge?_

_This doesn't come down to whether I love her enough to let her go. It's about whether I respect her enough to trust her. _

So he kissed her.

He hadn't meant it to be a real kiss. It had just struck him as the briefest and most effective way to sum up the problem, thus avoiding a lot of very awkward confessions. But he overestimated his own self-control . . . or underestimated Jean's reaction. He'd been prepared to frighten her. He'd been prepared to be slapped, or telekinetically assaulted with every small object in the garage. He hadn't been prepared to feel her kissing him back. But there she was, her arms around his neck, her lips pressed eagerly against his, the warmth of her skin a fierce and wonderful burn wherever she touched him. _Jean, Jean, Jean, Jean, Jean_. He wanted her so desperately he wondered if it would kill him.

To blazes with Scott, with the team, with all of it. She was _his_. He had claimed her, and he would fight to keep her. Hang the consequences.

No. No he wouldn't. Because she was only twenty-one and barely knew what she was doing, and he was far beyond old enough to know better than this.

He broke away from her embrace and gently pushed her back.

Her face burned red with embarrassment, then suddenly went white with horror. "Oh, my gosh," she muttered, pressing her fingertips against her lips as though she couldn't believe what they had just done. "Oh, my gosh," she repeated, the words a mantra to bring her world back into focus. "Logan, I . . . I'm _so_ sorry. I have no idea what got into me."

"You remember me telling you that this wasn't your fault?" he asked, still struggling to get his breath back. "It still isn't. It's never going to be. My fault, always."

"Your _fault_? How could you think . . ."

"I love you, Jean," Logan told her, his voice so assured and gentle it even startled him. "More than my own life. But this is the last time you'll ever hear me say it. Because you have a boyfriend, who just happens to be my field commander. And I have a responsibility to protect this team."

Jean was going to say 'but.' The word was swimming in her eyes like tears. Logan saw her hand fall away from her mouth to let the word out. He caught her by her wrist and put the hand back across her lips. "No arguing, darlin'. This is how it's gotta be."

"Why?" Jean demanded, wrenching her hand from his grasp so she could talk unimpaired. "Why do _you_ get to decide who I should be with? Why should the team matter, when it's my life and my choice?"

If that wasn't Jean all over. If he'd asked her nicely to stay with Scott, she'd have done it in a heartbeat. But because he'd ordered her, suddenly she was all spit and vinegar. "The team does matter, Red. You know it. And you know our actions are gonna affect it. If I try to take you away from Scott, he'll fight for you. There'll be a leadership crisis. The X-Men will have to pick sides. It would be a sixteen-mutant Trojan War."

"But—"

"And I don't know if you remember this right now, but _you love Scott_. One kiss is not gonna change that."

She didn't say 'but' this time. She just looked at him. And in that look, he could see her thoughts without bothering to use telepathy. She was seeing all the _what ifs_ . . . what if things had worked out differently, and she'd still been free to be won? What if this conversation had happened a year ago, two years ago? Would everything have been different? Would that have been better?

The kitchen door creaked again. Jean, unused to keeping secrets or being caught doing things she shouldn't, jumped awkwardly away from Logan. Logan calmly picked up another of the engine parts and went back to scrubbing it.

"Guys," Ray called, "dinner's in five."

"We're comin'," Logan assured him. It was almost disgusting what a cool liar he was.

"Cool." The door creaked shut again.

Logan stood up and helped Jean to her feet. "Go wash up," he told her. "After dinner, see if you can get Charles away from Dr. MacTaggart long enough to help you set up some mental blocks like the ones Rogue had."

Jean shook her head. "No. I don't want to forget this. I mean, I do, but . . . but this is my problem, too, whether it's my fault or not. And even if it is an awful situation . . . I don't think I'll ever regret hearing you say you love me. I don't think any woman would." She let her eyes fall in embarrassment. "Is that wrong?"

Logan shrugged. "Got me. Who even knows anymore?"

Jean sighed, then groaned. She reached out her hand, and Logan took it, squeezing her fingers in solidarity. "Oh, _Logan_. What on earth are we going to do?"

"We're gonna go eat dinner. This doesn't change anything, Red. You've still got a life and a future, and I'm not gonna keep you from those."

"But what about you?"

Logan scoffed. "You'd be amazed at the things I can survive." He turned her towards the door, and she went docilely, seemingly unaware of what her feet were doing. "Someday, when all this is funny, remind me to tell you about Mariko Yoshida."

"When is this going to be _funny_?"

"Everything is, in the end."

"Jean," called Scott from the kitchen, "can you come give me a hand with this?"

Jean looked at Logan in a moment of panic. "Um . . . yeah, I'm coming." Her feet didn't move.

"Go ahead," Logan ordered her. "As long as you're happy and safe, I'll be okay."

* * *

Jean Gray had always had a charmed life. She'd been surrounded by people who loved her from the day she'd been born. She was smart, she was beautiful, she was financially secure, she had useful, manageable, marvelous powers. Jean Gray was perfect. Jean Gray was happy.

Nothing in her entire life had prepared her for this.

She walked into the kitchen automatically, as though some other telekinetic were controlling her limbs. She could sense Logan behind her; her own TK told her exactly where he was. She knew his movement pattern perfectly, as well as he knew her scent: he kept his weight over the balls of his feet more than anyone else in the house, constantly ready to drop into a crouch and spring in any direction at a heartbeat's notice. There were lifetimes of danger trained into his muscles, threaded through his heart.

She'd known him for a decade, and she'd never known him at all. It was like everything she'd ever known about him . . . everything she'd ever known about herself . . . was burning around her, and a strange, unknown world was springing into being before her eyes.

Her feet stopped moving; her brain was too busy trying to process her new worldview to spare any energy for operating her limbs. Logan put a hand on the small of her back and pushed her forward.

The kitchen was a flurry of last-minute dinner-preparation activity. Scott was in the thick of it, cracking ice cube trays and shaking the ice into pitchers for the table. Jean stopped again, staring at him. Logan didn't touch her this time; he'd moved to the far side of the room.

She'd loved Scott this morning. They'd been raised together. He was her team leader, her best and oldest friend. He was confident and decisive during crises, sweet and inept at real life, patient with the younger kids, silly with Kurt, understanding with Rogue, cold and deliberate to his enemies, fierce and brave in her defense. And he trusted her completely. So why did she suddenly feel like she was being forced into a political alliance, instead of walking to join the boyfriend she loved?

She turned once more to glance back at Logan. He was as complicated as Scott was straightforward, as wild as Scott was disciplined, as frightening as Scott was reassuring. Who _was_ she, that these two drastically different men would love her? Who was she, that she could love them both?

Because she did. She knew it, and it scared her to death. She was capable of more wildness and more treachery and more selfishness and more sorrow than she'd ever dreamed before. She could love Logan, if she chose. Or she could love Scott. It was all a question of who she decided she wanted to be.

And she wished to high heaven she didn't have to make this decision _now_, reeling from shock, standing in the kitchen, on the spur of the moment, no time to think, no time to wonder, having to dodge Amara and her badly balanced stack of plates even as she rediscovered who she was and how much capacity she had for inflicting suffering on the people she loved.

If she chose Logan, she would shatter this safe, secluded world of the Institute forever. But if she chose Scott, no one would suffer but Logan. No one would ever even know.

Logan nodded to her. _Go on._

She went.

"What do you need help with?" she asked, turning to Scott and focusing all her attention on him.

"Just this. I keep getting ice all over the floor." He looked up from the ice cube tray, and then set it down on the counter when he caught sight of her face. "Are you okay?"

She nodded. It was an awkward nod; she'd never had to lie before, and wasn't very good at it, even just with her head. "I'm fine."

She could feel his eyes, the eyes she would never see, fixed steadily on her face. She could see concern in the set of his eyebrows, and love in the thoughtful, down-turned lines of his mouth.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, her heart and body flaring with warmth. It burned away the taste and feel of Logan on her lips. "I just needed to tell you that I love you."

His thoughtful half-smile quirked up his mouth, and he let his forehead rest against hers. "I love you," he murmured back, his voice soft, warm, and gentle, if a little bewildered.

"Hey, take the mush outside, you two," Ray ordered. "We're working in here."

Scott kissed her again. Without looking, he grabbed a handful of ice from the pitcher and flung it over his head at Ray. Jean giggled against his mouth and broke the kiss.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Scott asked her, ignoring Ray's loud protests as he tried to fish an ice cube out of his t-shirt. "You're all red."

She put two fingers over his mouth. "_Jean_," she insisted quietly. "Only Logan's allowed to call me Red."

* * *

Professor Xavier looked up from the dizzying array of genetic sequences on his computer. "Come in."

Colossus eased open the door. "I didn't knock yet."

"I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention. You can knock now, if you'd like."

"Um . . . I don't think I'll bother." He closed the door behind himself and came to stand at attention in front of the desk.

"Is Moira ready to leave? I can call Logan and have him be your pilot."

"She's already spoken to him. They're flying back this evening."

"I see. In that case, what can I do for you?"

"Well, sir, I was talking with Kitty—Katherine—"

"You can call her Kitty. Everyone does."

"—And she mentioned that you would have the resources to help me enter one of the design schools in New York."

The Professor raised his eyebrows, smiling. "You're an artist?"

Colossus hesitated. "Yes, sir. But I'm a good soldier, too: I can work hard, and take orders. Doctor MacTaggart can vouch for me. So can Gambit. I know we've been on . . . on conflicting sides . . . for a very long time, which I deeply regret, but I have no loyalty to your enemies, and I'd do my duty to you, sir, and to your team."

"Do you have a portfolio?"

"Um . . . yes, sir."

"Good. It's very difficult to get into art school without a portfolio." Xavier smiled and indicated a chair. "Sit down, Piotr. Let's have a talk."

* * *

Rogue and Remy emerged into the house's secondary hangar, where Logan was getting Velocity ready for takeoff. It flew slower than the jet, but used less fuel, and since there was no hurry now he was taking it to fly Doctor MacTaggart home.

The two young southerners had their fingers interlaced. They weren't in skin-to-skin contact—that was still too overwhelming to handle except in very small doses—but they were connected, and had stayed that way all afternoon. Rogue didn't want to let go of him—not yet. Not when they might have so little time.

"Oh, good," Rogue sighed. "We were hopin' we'd catch you before you left. Just wanted to say thank you for everything you did."

Moira smiled. "I'm just glad I could help, dearie. And I'm glad to see you back on your feet."

Rogue grinned, then elbowed Remy in the ribs. He elbowed her back and grinned, remaining provokingly silent.

"Gambit's grateful too," Rogue insisted, "Only the poor thing was tragically born without any manners."

Moira nodded, frowning sympathetically. "A real shame, that. He was such a charming lad."

"Gumbo, you seen the tin-plated Russian?" Logan asked. "He's supposed to be down here. He knows we're flyin' tonight."

Gambit shook his head. "Not since dinner."

"Here I am." Piotr entered the hangar, followed by the Professor. "I'm sorry for the delay, Dr. MacTaggart. I have been talking with Professor Xavier. He has offered me a place in his team, and with your permission, I'd like to accept."

Moira practically beamed. "Well, I hardly know how Sean will manage without you, Piotr, but I can't think of a better place for you. I'm sure you'll be a great help to Charles. He can give you much more scope for your talents here than we ever could on Muir Island." She reached up to embrace him. "Congratulations. I'll send your things back with Logan."

"Thank you, Doctor. Please give my love to Sean and Betsy."

"I surely will."

Piotr turned to Remy, who was biting down very hard on his lower lip. "You may as well say it, before you injure yourself."

"_Je t'ai bien dit!_" Gambit announced.

"Feel better?"

"Much, t'anks."

"Are you all right with this, Logan?" Professor Xavier asked.

Logan shrugged. "Eh, we can give him a trial run. Where're we gonna stash him, though? No more empty rooms in the boys' wing."

"He can share wid me," Gambit offered.

Logan raised an eyebrow, glanced at Rogue, and raised it higher. "Oh, yeah?"

"It is an established scientific fact dat girls got cooties," Remy informed him. "De whole girls' wing is crawlin' wid 'em. What kinda friend would I be if I made him sleep down dere? Besides," Remy glanced down at Rogue, and unlaced his fingers from hers so he could slip his arm around her waist and fit her against his side. "I gonna be hittin' de road again soon, and it's no use de room goin' empty." He nodded to Dr. MacTaggart. "Safe flight, ma'am. T'anks again fo'all you done." He turned to leave the hangar, drawing Rogue along with him.

As soon as they were in the relative privacy of the hallway, Rogue let her head loll wearily against Remy's shoulder. She knew he had to go: the Master's Mark was yet to be won. She knew it, and accepted it, but she still wasn't happy about it.

"When will you leave?" she asked, her voice as low as she could make it. Though she tried not to let any hint of her dread leak out, he knew it anyway. He'd touched her, and he knew.

He leaned his head down and rested his cheek against her hair. "Soon," he admitted. "But not yet. Not yet."

* * *

Author's Notes:

Sorry about the delay on this! This chapter required _major_, but _major_, last-minute redrafts. Rrgh.

_Je t'ai bien dit, _in case you didn't guess, means 'I told you so.'


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

* * *

For the first time since they'd all come home, Gambit was making dinner.

No one in the Institute quite understood how he managed to take food so seriously and still be so macho. But none of them had been raised in New Orleans, where good food was decidedly a 'guy thing'. Food was synonymous with family and home. Food was important. It meant safety and community and happiness.

At least, it meant safety when anyone had the sense to not to give Kitty sharp knives.

"Ow!" Kitty dropped the chef's knife and jumped back from the counter, letting it clatter to the floor. There was a bright red line of blood across her left index finger.

"Git away from de stove!" Gambit ordered, his first concern for the pot of jambalaya. "You drip in anyt'in'?"

"No, it doesn't hurt much, thanks soooooo much for your concern, Gambit," Kitty griped.

Piotr snorted. "I will never understand how you managed to earn such a reputation for being smooth with women." He took Kitty by the wrist and led her to the sink. "Is there a first aid kit in his kitchen?"

"Cupboard above the fridge," Rogue told him. "Ah'll get the parsley." She picked up the bloodied knife, slipped it into the sink, and pulled a clean one out of the knife block. With the fresh blade, she finished mincing the aromatic mass of bright green leaves. Although the knife could hardly do her any harm, she still cut with it the way Remy had taught her many months ago: with the knuckles of her left hand turned towards the blade, keeping the point always on the cutting board.

Remy smiled, seeing this shadow of himself in her. It had taken this disastrous summer for him to really appreciate how much they had changed one another since that long-ago, heart-stopping moment when they'd met over a blazing king of hearts. He'd taught her how to use kitchen knives, to conjugate the imperfect, to let a secret dwell silently inside herself, to shoplift, to dance, to enjoy the simple and sensual pleasure of her hair falling across her shoulder blades, to live in the moment. And she'd taught him to bear injustice, to trick the Danger Room sensors, to take multiple-choice tests, to appreciate idealism, to be part of a team, to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. She'd taught him to be a hero. And thanks to him, she was a mean parsley-chopper.

She carried the board over to the stove and slid the leaves into the stockpot. Remy obligingly stirred them in, but his attention was focused on her bare hands and wrists. They were so hypnotic, so unbelievably tempting. As she drew back from the stove, he reached out—quick as lightning—and brushed the side of his hand against the back of her wrist, where her watch had left a band of paler skin against the warm golden tint the sun had given her.

He couldn't help it, really. It was just too much fun to see her freeze at his faint, almost imperceptible touch, to hear her gasp as fire and hormones went shooting through her whole system. He could see her reaction in the heat signatures across her body, could feel it in the energy he absorbed from her. It was delicious. She was so unbelievably sensitive to touch, after all the long years of physical isolation, that the slightest contact was enough to paralyze her with shock and pleasure and terror and joy.

He'd never imagined that such faint, isolated touches could feel so good. But, then again, he'd never imagined someone like Rogue. But she was here now, and so was he, and they had all the rest of their lives to spend together. Soon enough, there would be more between them . . . kisses and embraces and getting caught making out in the elevator . . . but there was no hurry. They had all the time in the world, and this game was way too much fun to rush through.

They hadn't told anybody yet that they could share this. Just for now . . . just for this first little while of learning one another all over again . . . they wanted it to be their secret. But Remy loved getting away with things under other people's noses. He also loved watching Rogue come up with cover stories on the spur of the moment.

"You okay?" Kitty asked, looking up from the finger that she was in the middle of bandaging.

"Stubbed my toe," Rogue muttered. She shot Remy a _Don't-DO-that_ glare. Remy grinned and scoffed. What kind of crap excuse was that?

The kitchen was starting to smell of peppers, spices, chicken, shrimp, and andouille sausage. He was surrounded by his friends. The girl he loved was wearing his ring and was about mad enough, in a good way, to kick him in the shin. Life didn't have much more to offer than this.

He had to leave it behind again. Soon. But not yet.

Gambit refused to think about the fact that he'd been promising himself 'soon' every day for the last three weeks. Three weeks, after all, wasn't very long. He still had time. He didn't know how much time, but surely some. Three weeks was hardly any time at all.

He turned his attention back to the bisque, which was threatening to boil. He covered the pot and moved it onto a back burner, praying that it would stay warm long enough for them to get everything else onto the table.

Then, quite suddenly and silently, Rogue was standing next to him. _Right_ next to him. And, in a movement that seemed to take forever but couldn't possibly have, really, she reached out and very, very gently brushed her finger along the back of his hand.

Remy froze. He couldn't remember Rogue ever having touched him of her own free will. She'd never initiated; just followed his lead. The touch sent lines of fire rocketing up his arm and through his chest. He didn't dare to breathe, for fear that the slightest movement might startle her away. The gentle stroke of her finger made his skin almost ache with his craving for her. She'd paralyzed him with the tiniest possible contact . . . and as her mind flowed gently into his, he started to realize that that had been her exact intention.

The potholder in his other hand burst into flames. He'd let it come to rest too close to the burner, and the copious quantities of smoke it had already made had somehow escaped his notice. Startled out of his daze, he flung the flaming potholder into the sink with one of his more eloquent curses.

"What in the world . . .?" demanded Piotr.

"Got distracted," Remy muttered darkly. Rogue had yanked open the refrigerator door and ducked inside to hide her laughter. That tricksy little mix! She'd _played_ him!

Oh, yes. Life was good.

He couldn't give it up just yet.

Remy wasn't sure what had awakened him. The room he now shared with Piotr was silent and dark. He hit the indiglo button on his watch: it was two thirty in the morning.

He turned over in bed, trying to find a comfortable position in which to go back to sleep. His movement made something crackle. He untangled one hand from his blankets and fished for whatever it was.

Someone had put a piece of paper on top of his chest. He sat up and put his hand behind it; the heat of his body shone through the page, back-lighting the letters printed there.

_Meet us outside._

Remy crumpled the paper into a ball and slipped out of bed. It was already cold: his second New York winter was fast approaching. Skipping socks, he shoved his feet into his boots and pulled his coat on over his pajamas.

How could they be here already? He'd only been back at the Institute for three weeks! Surely they could have given him more time, after all he'd already done.

No. He was a Guild Thief fighting for his Master's Mark, and once a thief declared that goal, there was no turning back. He knew he had been on vacation for too long. He kept meaning to leave again, to get back to work, but tomorrow was always soon enough for that. He just wanted one more day with Rogue. And one more, and one more, and one more.

Well, it looked like yesterday had been the last day. He snatched a pair of gloves from the top of his dresser and left the room.

He slipped silently down the hall and coaxed open the door to Rogue and Kitty's room. Rogue was asleep on her side, curled up into a ball. She eased awake when he stroked her hair out of her face.

"Some'a my people are here," he murmured when she opened her eyes. "Will you come wid me?"

"Yes."

She shrugged into her olive-green army jacket, more for moral support than because she could really feel cold, and snatched up a pair of gloves out of the drawer of her nightstand. Then she took his hand, and together they walked downstairs and out the front door.

The mansion's security systems had been quietly and discreetly disabled. Somebody was going to have a heck of a time setting that straight in the morning. Maybe he could do it before he left, if there was time.

Five men, all in suits and long coats, were waiting for him in front of the fountain. The first was Guildmaster Faury, of the Paris Guild. He eyed Rogue with mild surprise. "I would have added 'come alone' to my note, but I thought that was understood. And I felt it would be a bit melodramatic."

"Dis is Rogue," Remy told him. "She and I stay together."

"That isn't your choice to make, young man."

"Let her stay," ordered one of the other men. "She saved my son's life. Both of my sons." He stepped forward, and Remy had to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from gasping or jumping backwards. He'd been irresponsible; he'd neglected his work; but was that any reason to drag his _father_ up here?

"Hello, Remy," said Jean-Luc, without a smile or a scowl.

Remy nodded his head, instinctively drawing Rogue closer to him. He was in rich trouble now. Neglecting the quest for a Mark had to be a graver crime than he'd thought; much graver. Only something really drastic would bring his father to New York, in defiance of the Assassin's Guild, to face him after two years of bitter separation.

"I don't know if you've met these gentlemen," Jean-Luc observed. "This is Guildmaster Petrelli, of Rome, Guildmaster Cooper of London, and Guildmaster Wheeler of New York."

Five guildmasters. He was going to die. They were going to kill him. What else could they possibly want five guildmasters for?

"Gentlemen," Remy acknowledged. "I apologize dat I haven't been attendin' to my studies like I should. My neglect is inexcusable, an' I'll be on my way before first light. You really didn't have t'come out in all dis state to see me on my way."

How had they found out where he was, anyway? He'd done his best to keep the Guild away from the Institute, but he supposed if someone had been really determined it would only be a matter of time before they found out his new home.

"LeBeau," Faury interjected. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Remy blinked as his brain switched gears. "I been off de game fo' three weeks. Ain't dat why y'all are here?"

"Of course not."

What else could he possibly have done to disturb the Guild so much? Possibilities flashed through his mind. Had one of the drug lords whose safes he'd emptied been some unlikely ally of one of the European Guilds? Had he left some compromising clue behind at one of his takes? _Sainte Ciel_, did Professor Xavier or Doctor MacTaggart have Guild contacts? He'd _thought_ she'd forgiven him unsettlingly quickly . . .

"Did you, or did you not, steal a serum that gave you the powers of an Omega-level mutant?"

Remy nodded. "_Oui_. I did." Whatever was going on, lying wasn't going to help any. Not when Jean-Luc had heard the whole story from Bobby. The Guild was one of the world's best and biggest gossip chains.

"And do you, or do you not, remember one of my colleagues commenting that if you were to steal a nuclear missile, you would shortcut yourself through the requirements for becoming a Master Thief?"

"I didn't steal a nuke."

"What is an Omega-level mutant, LeBeau?"

"A person wid a mutant ability capable of affectin' de entire world."

"Are you now in command of such a power?"

"Yes."

"Because of the serum that you stole?"

"Yes."

"Therefore, is that serum more or less valuable than a nuclear missile?"

"More."

"More or less dangerous?"

"More."

"More or less rare?"

"More."

"Then you have stolen yourself a shortcut. Congratulations."

"But it wasn't a hard take. Not even close. I could've made dat pinch ten years ago widout breakin' a sweat."

"Don't flatter yourself, LeBeau. It's unbecoming. There is no other thief in the Guilds who could have made that pinch—who would have had the resources to know about that serum, to find it, to exploit it. You did the research, you made the kill. You were in the right place at the right time with the right information and the right allies. That's what is expected of a Master Thief. Or did you think that all we cared about was your ability to pick locks and outrun guard dogs?"

"But it's not fair. It's cheatin'. I haven't done near enough to earn de rank, not yet."

Rogue nudged his side with her elbow. "Remy, shut up."

Faury smiled. "Wise counsel, miss."

"The Guilds have decided that you've proven yourself worthy of the rank," Jean-Luc informed him. "You don't have any say in the matter anymore."

"I don'have a sponsor," Remy protested.

"Yes, you do," said Jean-Luc.

His father. His father had left his Guild, dared to venture beyond his home turf, had risked the wrath of the Boudreaux family to find his adopted street-demon of a second son. His father was the Master that Remy had wanted to be. And Remy had dreamed of having Jean-Luc stand as his sponsor up until the day Julian had died.

"I appreciate dat, _Père_, but you should know before y'go through wid dis dat I'm plannin' on retirin' as soon as I get my Mark. I got a home and a life here at de Institute. I went after de Mark for my team's benefit, not mine. My sponsor won't get much back on his investment."

"I'm not sponsoring you as an investment, _DB_. Your sainted mother, _qu'elle reste en paix_, would never forgive me if I let any other t'ief take my place fo'dis."

Remy nodded. His father was right; Christine would kill him. Remy wasn't quite sure how she'd manage it from beyond the grave, but he'd learned long ago—and Jean-Luc hard learned even longer ago—not to underestimate that woman.

Remy spared a glance for Rogue, her hand still warm and strong in his. He had his own Christine now. He knew that all the guildmasters had been studying her over these few minutes, and couldn't help but feel a pride that verged on smugness at the beautiful, fearless girl that stood by his side tonight. She answered him with a wry, patient smile. _Looks like they've thought of everything. _

"Take a knee, Remy LeBeau," Guildmaster Wheeler. Since they were in his territory, he was in charge of the ceremonials.

Remy did as he was told, releasing his hold on Rogue and pulling off his gloves. "Mind y'hands," he warned. "I can't be touched." He shrugged out of his coat, then pulled off the t-shirt in which he'd been sleeping, leaving his chest and back bare to the cold night air.

"Who presents this thief to be advanced within the Guild?" asked Guildmaster Wheeler.

"I do," answered Jean-Luc.

"Of what Guild is he?"

"Of New Orleans."

"Has he been faithful to that Guild, in guarding its secrets, in paying his tithes, and in honoring its history?"

"He has."

"Has he proved himself superior to all other thieves of the Guild?"

"He has."

"And does anyone here protest that this thief is not deserving of this rank and honor?"

There was silence. Remy could hear the crickets in the woods, and the soft, far-off murmur of the sea past the edge of the mansion's property.

"In that case, Remy LeBeau of New Orleans, take your Mark, and be called Master Thief from this day onward."

Remy squared his shoulders and raised his chin, gritting his teeth. Behind him, he heard Rogue inhale sharply—not quite gasping, but bracing herself in response to his sudden tension.

His father stood behind him, taking his sleep-tousled head in both hands as though administering an anointing or a blessing. Guildmaster Petrelli stepped forward, holding the marker in his hand. It looked like a small and intricate cookie cutter: the inverted mark of the United Guilds worked in razor-sharp metal, about two inches wide. Petrelli set it against the front of his left shoulder, just under his collarbone. Remy took a deep breath and held it.

The blades dug deep into his flesh, scarlet blood welling up around them. Petrelli pulled the marker away, and Guildmaster Cooper quickly stepped forward to sponge away the blood until the cuts themselves were visible. Then Guildmaster Faury pressed a paste of coal dust and oil into the wounds: coal was what diamonds were made of, and the blackness would stay in his skin forever.

Cooper covered the wound with a square of gauze and taped it into place. Remy stood up, pressing the bandage to slow down the bleeding.

"Congratulations, Master Thief," said Guildmaster Wheeler. Remy thanked him and shook hands all around.

The one by one, the guildmasters faded into the darkness . . . Cooper in the direction of the house, probably to turn the alarm system back on. Remy wasn't worried about having a master criminal inside the mansion: the Institute was his home, and he was a Master Thief now. No Guild member would dare target the house, no matter how much someone was paying. It was professional courtesy at this level. Professor Xavier's house would be safe as long as Remy claimed it for his own.

The only people left next to the fountain now were Remy, Rogue, and Guildmaster LeBeau.

"Congratulations, Remy," Jean-Luc told him. "I'm proud of you, _mon fils._"

"_Merci, père_." Somehow, it was harder now to be angry at his father. Jean-Luc had banished him from his home, but that didn't matter as much when he had a home of his own now, a home that he'd earned. "Never thought I'd see you again."

"Didn't know how welcome I'd be. But I had to come, to see you take your Mark like your mother always wanted. And to see your _demoiselle_ again." He nodded gracefully at Rogue. "It's been quite a long time, miss."

"Thank you for coming," Rogue answered. "Ah know it means a lot to Remy." She pulled off her right glove and extended her hand. Jean-Luc eyed it hesitantly, but Rogue's direct, challenging gaze encouraged him to return the greeting. Their hands met, shook once, and fell. The exultant flare in Rogue's eyes was more thrilling than skydiving and more precious than diamonds.

"Bobby sends his love to you both," Jean-Luc told them.

"We send ours back," Remy told him, slipping an arm around Rogue's waist. _Our love. We send_. _Us._

"I'll tell him."

"Jean-Luc!" called Guildmaster Cooper, quietly emerging from the house again.

"Dat's my ride," Jean-Luc told them. "_Dieu te benisse, DB. _Well done."

"_Merci,_ sir."

Another moment, and he and Rogue were alone.

As soon as she saw the front gates swing shut, Rogue let her shoulders sag and turned her attention to his bandaged injury. "That looked like it hurt like _crap_."

"It did," Remy admitted, hesitantly working the left shoulder. "But it's my Mark. _My Mark_, Rogue. I did it."

"You did it," Rogue agreed, letting her fingertips rest on the square of gauze. "Ah'm so proud of you. Remy LeBeau, my Master Thief."

Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he swung his arms around her waist and pulled her against his chest. "Rouge a'de X-Men, my miracle." He smiled down at her bare hand. "Bout scared me to death, there. You're _amazing_. You did it."

Rogue grinned, and reached up to brush a lock of hair off his forehead. "You're all pale. You should take some Tylenol or something, and get back to bed."

Remy shook his head. "On officially de best night a'my whole life, I am _not _takin' pain pills and goin' to bed. We gotta celebrate."

"Like how?"

Remy grinned, and wove his fingers into her tangled curls. "How 'bout we fly? Just you and me, while de night lasts. Let's fly out t'meet de sunrise, Rogue."

Rogue smiled, and her eyes drifted shut as he bent his head to hers. For the length one long, sweet, slow, breathless kiss, there was no one in the world but the pair of them.

There was no more gravity.

_Can you tell me, monsieur, to whom belong the stars?_

_This morning, the stars belong to us._

Author's Notes:

_qu'elle reste en paix_: May she rest in peace.

_mon fils_: my son.

_Demoiselle_: This is a rather archaic term for a young, unmarried lady.

_Dieu te benisse_: God bless you.

And that, my friends, wraps up another exciting adventure. Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews, comments, support and encouragement! I'm so glad that I have such a great bunch of people to share my daydreams with.

As ever, I offer no promises for any continuation . . . though there are twenty pages on my hard drive already, so it's possible that I have once again been bitten by the bug. I'll dream, and write, and see what happens. In the meantime, I wish you all a splendid holiday season! And I hope you're looking forward to/already enjoying _Wolverine and the X-Men_, which is a blast.

Now I'm gonna go get back to work on . . . dang, I have no idea what to call this thing. The next one.

Face front, true believers!

Seri


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